


no path but the road

by prettybrilliantfunny



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Capable Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny
Summary: “You’ve gotten rusty.”Jaskier rolled his shoulders back. The blade was a bit long for his taste, but it handled well. “I’ve been in the habit of trading barbs, not blows.”---After Geralt and the mountain, Jaskier returns to life as a traveling bard--running into old friends and surprising new flames.
Relationships: Coën/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold
Comments: 66
Kudos: 518





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier took the long way down the mountain.

After their disastrous journey using the dwarves’ “shortcut,” Jaskier was in no hurry to repeat that particular experience. He, having never been in a hurry in his life and certainly not being in one now, was more than happy to take the mountain trail back. Unfortunately, having followed Geralt (who had followed the dwarves), he didn’t actually know which beaten scrap of bare earth _was_ the trail. So, he gathered his things--the few possessions split between he and Geralt that were totally his own--pointed his feet South, and started walking. He’d reach town eventually and right now?--eventually was good enough.

So long as he kept walking, kept his feet hurting in his expensive yet (truly) impractical boots, he wouldn’t be tempted to do something stupid. Like think.

Think how easy it would be to wait. Here or in town--it made little difference. He could wait and Geralt would appear--today, or the next day--spent of his anger; his head a little cooler, his voice a little gruffer. He would glower at Jaskier, but he wouldn’t send him away.

Jaskier would deliver a few exquisite and practiced barbs, Geralt would grumble something no sane individual would consider an apology, and, while neither would be satisfied by the exchange, they would go on just...going on. The same as they’d done for the last ten years.

Two years had passed between their last parting and the incident with the djinn, and Geralt had acted as if he’d only stepped away for a drink. As if entire seasons hadn’t turned between them, ballads written and monsters slain with half the Continent in the middle. He supposed that was just what it felt like to a Witcher: that time was something that happened to other people.

The thought stung. Saltwater in an open wound.

He bedded down that night without a fire. Though common sense told him it’d be impossible to sleep--his mind still churning, the mountainside full of beasts brave enough to take on a single traveler--he had scarcely laid his head down before he was blinking the dawn from his eyes. 

He ate breakfast in the watery grey light: strips of dried meat and an apple he sliced pieces from as he walked. It was tart, not too sweet. Just how he liked them. It had been truly a boon to stumble on a fruit seller whose wares weren’t mealwormed and ripened to mush, a boon hadn’t been able to let slip. They’d been traveling so long on dry rations that when they’d gone to stock up for their journey with Borch, the brightly-arrayed stall had been like a beacon.

_“No apples.”_

_“Ah,” Jaskier had nodded sagely, pointing out his choices to the merchant. “Witchers allergic to fruits?”_

_“Hm.”_

_“Too traumatic to discuss. I understand.” And then, to the vendor: “How much? Six, I think.”_

_The merchant had rattled off a price in their thick accent, but the number of fingers was understood easily enough._

_“They’re too heavy.”_

_Jaskier had scoffed, too busy digging through his moneybag to dignify the complaint with a response._

_“You like fruit,” Geralt said in that way of his, where it wasn’t quite a question, wasn’t quite a statement. A quick glance and--ah, that particular furrow in his brow--Jaskier kenned it was closer to the former. Maybe a dash of accusation? For hiding so important a personal detail._

_“I happen to like it quite a bit when it’s not being thrown at me, yes--ahh, thank you.” He flashed a winning smile at the vendor, handing them the appropriate number of coins. The apples all went into a small sack, save the last. He polished it on the sleeve of his doublet and held it out. Geralt eyed it suspiciously, considering--and maybe he’d have taken it, maybe it could have been more kindness than jest, but Jaskier was impatient. He took a cheeky bite instead, laughing brightly when Geralt grumbled and turned away._

_“More for us girl.” Roach might not have been swayed by his crooning, but she was easily bought by the offered apple. The mare could pretend to dislike him as much as she wanted; Jaskier knew he’d worn her down ages ago. He smoothed his hand down the long plane of her nose and pretended not to notice Geralt had turned to watch, wondering if he’d worn him down yet too._

He chewed thoughtfully on another piece. His hunger was a dull knot in his stomach, barely slaked by something so small as an apple (no matter how perfectly ripe), but Jaskier would have to make the second one last. The rest were somewhere up the mountain, in a cloth bag tied neatly to the side of Roach’s saddle.

“All yours, girl.” He cut another slice.

\---  
  


He made good time.

Though he’d often spent his time with Geralt working on new material, the latest epic of Witcher triumphing over monster, most of their time on the road was spent in silence. Oh, they’d occasionally talk about the towns that lay ahead, which might still have coin enough after the harvest to pay Geralt in any legitimate capacity. Or if it looked like rain. Once, he’d gotten through an entire sonnet crown without Geralt demanding ‘blessed silence’.” It had been about a wizard cuckolded by a woman’s cleverness, and at the end Geralt had even _smiled_.

Now, he kept pace singing walking songs. They spilled out one after the other--some rougher than others, but more held in his memory than he’d realized--and all of them minding the same tempo. His repertoire was nothing to sneer at, but he was rarely called upon to belt a pace-keeper--Geralt having been, as they said, _self-driven_. Still, Jaskier had occasion to travel with dwarves over the years, and none had been shy about belting a song. He liked that best about them--Zoltan, Yarpen, and the others: always down for a lark. They’d taught him every traveling, drinking, and bedding song they knew--and some they didn’t, making up new choruses every time they picked it up again. “The Young Man from Larvik” was a common favorite (and so unabashedly bawdy it should never be sung in mixed company). 

Jaskier started there. Afterwards came “The Road, My Home,” “Ere I Wander,” “The Goose’s Gander,” and every version he knew of “The Merry Lass” and her many assets. 

He was in his second rendition of “Sun Along The River,” when the rocky landscape began to ease, making room for tree and green. The path opened up in front of him and from his vantage point he could see all the way down into the valley. _Civilization_.

A new bounce in his step, Jaskier picked up the pace (and the volume of his belting). More small paths were snaking out of the trees and underbrush to join to his, which was a comfort--not two minutes on his own and he’d managed to find the main road first try. It wasn’t ballad worthy, perhaps, but maybe worth a stanza in the recounting of his journey? He tripped over a rock--“ _Bollocks._ ” Maybe just a line, then.

A tingle raced down his spine. Small but impossible to ignore, like the prickle of sweat at the back of your neck in summer. A feeling that something was wrong. For all the noise he was making, he shouldn’t have noticed. But maybe it was the way the light caught strangely in the moleyarrow; maybe it was the absence of birds in the trees. Or maybe it was something far simpler: that while he never had the brains to avoid it, Jaskier had always had an excellent sense for danger.

And something, a definitely _unfriendly_ something, was laying in wait at the crossroads.

The shadow burst from the underbrush with shocking speed. Jaskier threw himself to the side, rolling hard over the stony ground. He shot upright, knife pulled from his boot in the same breath. The creature screeched, hooked claws scrabbling at the tree it had crashed into in Jaskier’s stead, and the wild staccato of its rage told him what it was long before his eyes focused in.

An endrega. 

Drone, if he had to guess, simply because they were the most common--he hadn’t been a particularly keen student when Geralt had illustrated the differences. The too-many-legged monster skittered onto the path, gnashing its mandibles, and Jaskier resisted the instinct to step back. If it was sizing him up, he couldn’t be sure, couldn’t see its eyes. Did endregas even have eyes?

The creature hissed, its body swaying low to the ground, like a brawler in the ring. Jaskier tightened his grip, brain scrambling for the essential facts. _Hard carapace, aggressive--no fucking surprise there, susceptible to blades oiled in bloodmoss and shit else_ \--not that that helped him any. His best option was to land a blow in its softer underbelly--a truly terrifying thought, given the reach of his blade. Though, if the eyes came back into play--

The endrega’s entire body convulsed. A violent tremor that ran from its head to its... _poisoned quills._

“Fuck.”

Jaskier dropped. Virulent green painted the air above him, half a dozen spikes as long as his forearm spitting the dirt just behind him. He could hear his old quartermaster’s voice: _move_. He shoved himself up. Feet scrabbling to get purchase he pushed forward, charging in low and fast. The endrega had skittered backward--something Jaskier hadn’t accounted for. But it hadn’t expected him either. Jaskier stumbled, his harried attack falling short even as his momentum carried him forward. The beast shuddered again--a second quill attack already underway, hoping to have caught him still flat on the road. But Jaskier was too close. 

The endrega, already committed, tried to twist and skirt back as it released its poisonous barbs. Too late. Jaskier slid in low under its reach, and kicked hard at its front leg. He heard the snap, then the clacking screech of its pain and rage. It fell forward, nearly crushing Jaskier, then surged wildly upwards onto its two back legs, its mandibles stretching wide to strike.

Jaskier thrust his knife upwards with both hands. The blade burst through the creature’s hide like a punctured wineskin. Gore and viscera spilled over Jaskier’s hands. He gritted his teeth and didn’t look away. With his full strength he sliced downwards, a single, halting pull of steel through torso.

The endrega rolled away, keening horribly. Its jointed legs scrabbled in the dirt, trying to lift its gutted body, to get away. Jaskier scooted backwards, ass in the dirt--graceless and sweating but unharmed. The creature’s death throes were violent and brief. With its final act, the endrega curled its entire body inwards and was still.

Jaskier exhaled a shaky whistle and tipped backwards to lay spread eagle in the dirt. The copper pulse sat high in his throat and he forced his breath to steady. In. And Out. He huffed, the blue sky tilting overhead.

“Don’t what he was always making a fuss about...”

\---

“Don’t take it personal--they’s always in a bad mood.”

The barmaid had appeared next to his table with a frothing mug of ale. She set it at his elbow before tucking her serving tray under her arm. Jaskier accepted the mug with a wan smile, and gave a small shake of his head. “S’alright. Wasn’t my best.”

The urge to say more was bit back; an old habit that settled rough in him, like sand between teeth. 

_Limericks more their speed?_

_I’ll show them where they can stick their critiques._

_I’m a bit--out of sorts._

He was, after all, “just a bard.” If he had the skill to demand their appreciation, it hardly mattered. Not in some half-finished town in an unnamed mountain valley. If they had coin, it would be little, Jaskier reasoned, and if they had taste at all, they’d not have heckled him to begin with. Bards had all manner of means for getting by in the world, means that depended more on charisma than clashing blades. He’d not forgotten, but it felt harder now to swallow his tongue.

The woman waved him off when he reached for a coin to pay her. “On the house,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks fer the song.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the other patrons who, only a few moments ago, had made clear, in their creatively uncouth way, exactly what they thought of his playing. “They’re in here more nights than not. Lost a mate a while back.”

He made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “Endregas?”

“How’d y’know?”

Jaskier took a deep pull from his ale before answering. “Ran into one outside of town--or, in truth, it ran into me. Rarely seen one alone.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she huffed. “They multiply like rabbits, seems like.”

That wasn’t biologically true, though he could see why she’d think so. They operated in swarms and if anyone were unfortunate enough to stray too close to their nest, they were capable of terrifying speeds. And poor attitudes. Her mention of the beasts forced his mind back to the thought he had been so careful to keep it away from: a certain emotionally-constipated Witcher with a particular set of skills. After all, he’d thought of the Witcher too after his own encounter with the oversized insect. It _was_ a job for a Witcher; he had no reason not to speak his piece.

“If you post a notice now, there’s good odds it’ll be taken up.”

“Eh?” She’d been scanning the tavern’s patrons with a practiced eye, and turned back with renewed interest.

“Mm. There’s rumors of a Witcher nearby.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; Jaskier supposed hearing tell of a Witcher was still rather novel in these parts. “‘e’ll help us?”

Jaskier shrugged and tossed back the last of his ale. “If the coin’s right. Thanks for the drink.”

\---

He spent the last of his own coin--even the copper that would have gone to his drink--on a horse. A beautiful grey stallion he named Ganymede. He scratched just behind the horse’s ears and was rewarded with a soft whuffle, Ganymede’s nose bumping his cheek. “Hullo,” he murmured.

Jaskier swung himself up into the saddle. It had been some time, but he found his seat after a moment. The horse fidgeted, perhaps impatient, but didn’t shy. He snorted and whinied while Jaskier checked his belongings were properly secured (his lute most especially), which only endeared him to the bard. _Trust me to find a talkative horse_ , Jaskier thought. 

With a soft click, he led Ganymede from the stable. The evening was starting to turn, the sun rising lazily to the horizon and turning thatch to honey’d gold. And despite himself, despite his own treacherous longing to _stay,_ to see if they might crash into each other yet again--Jaskier turned Ganymede to the East and set off, the first light of morning still rising over the town.

* * *

_Spring_

“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier announced, and Ganymede whinied in response. The Academy blazed bright as poppies against the blue of the sky. The citadel looming before them promised a soft bed and fresh oats, as good as any siren-song after weeks on the road. 

Jaskier ran his hand up and down Ganymede’s neck, an absent-minded gesture more for his comfort than the horse’s. “Home,” he murmured. “Or as close to it, I suppose…”

He’d come close in the intervening years since his graduation ( _summa cum laude_ , thank you very much), but it had been some time since he’d been back to the Academy proper. The Western bridge was unavoidable unless he wanted to circle half the city, but if he skirted around to one of the portside gates, he might be able to reach the school without drawing the notice of too many eyes.

Ganymede fell into step behind a traders caravan. A line of wagons overflowing with linens and ore headed the slow procession from the road to the bridge. On the back of the trailing wagon a young girl, twin braids peaking out from beneath her headscarf, was singing a rhyming ditty. Jaskier hummed along. Every so often he’d look ahead, shielding his eyes from the sun to measuring the time. And Ganymede kept pace along the wagon.

\---

To Jaskier’s pleasure, he was recognized by the guardsman at the lower gate. He was let through with minimal fuss and a promise to send a bottle of wine down as soon as Jaskier was settled--for the patronage, of course. 

He’d just sneak into the faculty level, see who they had running the College of Trouvereship and Poetry, and charm his way into a temporary professorship. Oh, and take a blessed bath. Though, perhaps that ought to come first, given how much time he’d spent on horseback. So, sneaking into a bath on the _aquaduct_ level, _then_ charming the Dean--

Jaskier’s stomach growled. 

Food. That was key--he’d not eaten since breakfast that morning and one could hardly be expected to coerce employment on an empty stomach. Something hot and steaming would be just the ticket. Preferably smothered in gravy.

He had just decided on the proper order of events when he arrived at the stables. He got Ganymede settled and unsaddled, and, with a promise to return that evening with a sinful amount of treats, left him to the care of the stablehand. 

He made it halfway to the kitchens.

He’d just skirted a group of students when an arm shot out of an empty doorway, yanking him from the hall. Jaskier yelped and grabbed for the hand that had a fistful of his doublet. His assailant shoved him roughly into the wall and Jaskier finally got a good look.

Red-hair. Twined serpents hanging from a leather choker. A glare fit to send grown men to their knees.

Jaskier’s face burst into a grin. “Shani!” 

He threw his arms around her in a tight embrace, almost knocking her back, but the healer returned the hug without hesitation. “ _Jaskier_.”

“You look just as I remember,” he swore as he stepped back to arms-length, holding fast to her hands.

“Oh?” She blew back her bangs, drawing his attention to the short-cropped sweep of her hair, newly streaked with grey--but her eyes were sparkling with mischief.

Jaskier squeezed her hands. “The fancy robes are new.” He admitted and winked. “Don’t tell me the Chancellor finally got his head out of his ass and appointed you Dean?”

Shani laughed. “Not quite. But with such glowing praise, I imagine he’ll come around any day now.”

“Happy to help.” He kissed her finger tips, stealing another laugh from the healer before Shani pulled her hands back and examined them with mock affront.

“You’re filthy. Did you avoid _every_ river on the road?”

“Only for want of seeing you, dearest Shani.” Jaskier swept a low bow, grimacing as more road-dust shook loose. “And now, having drunk my fill of your presence, I will happily spend the next several hours in the baths--”

“--steeping?”

“Poaching.” He smirked and Shani rolled her eyes. “Which reminds me--any chance of having a bit of a snack sent down to the baths? That’s the ticket.”

“Any other demands?”

“ _Requests_ ,” Jaskier corrected. “And yes. Could you tell me our dear Chancellor’s mood today?”

Shani waved a hand, cutting straight to the heart of things, as usual. No wonder she and Geralt had gotten on so well. “We’ve just had a lecturer retire,” she told him. “I’ll add your name to the faculty lists.”

“How fortunate I came along!” He exclaimed with a hand to his breast. And then, genuinely, “ _Thank you._ ”

Shani tipped her head, and Jaskier knew that look--just a tinge of fondness to mellow out the exasperation. “You’ll certainly liven up the place.”

She wasn’t wrong about that, though any liveliness would have to wait until after he was fed and scoured clean. Even his grime had a layer of grime. He threw her a cheeky salute on his way out.

“One more thing,” Shani called.

“Hm?”

“He’s waiting for you in Lily Courtyard.”

Jaskier froze--one hand on the doorframe, trying not to wince. “ _Ah_.” And he’d been so careful. “How--?”

“Stable boy.”

_Melitele’s tits._

“Of course.” He ran a hand over his face. “No chance of--”

“‘Fraid not.” At least Shani looked somewhat sympathetic; amused at his expense, sure, but there--at the corner of her mouth--a faint but _definite_ twitch of sympathy. 

“Right,” he nodded, steeling himself. “I’ll just….go then.”

She saluted when he left.

\---

Oxenfurt Academy was known for its exemplary professors. 

Scholars came from across the Continent to study under them, in disciplines ranging from archaeology to medicine to Dijkstra’s favorite: Comparative Spying and Applied Sabotage. It was, after all, the premiere Academy--no other coming close, despite Novigrad’s delusions. Knowledge was its trade and the school plied it well, ensuring that expertise was passed on by the elite alone.

It was also a condition of graduation that every student trained in basic combat. The Academy employed masters in all fields of martial and dueling combat--melee, ranged, cavalry. They even had a chap from Skellige who “taught” tavern brawling (if you caught him in said taverns after midnight). The reason given for this unorthodox requirement varied depending on which senior scholar was leading the orientation that day. The most popular theory was the conspiracy of a secret army of the literate, stretching back since the inception of the Redanian Royalty. Jaskier, falling for once in the camp of reasonability, assumed a more practical aim: that, having invested a significant amount of time (and crowns) in training them, it would be a poor return for the Academy’s doctors, historians, and troubadours to be immediately struck down by a random thug or bandit.

However much the first-years might complain, they were quick to change their tune. Sometimes it was enough to hear the mandolin tutor recount the story of the blacksmith who had believed he was imparting a wholly different type of fingering lessons to his wife. How easy the hammer had swung in his hand. Some needed to come face to face with their own mortality in a back-alley of Oxenfurt proper--townies drunk on piss wine and wild to carve their inadequacies out of someone whose lot had turned out better than theirs.

The bards and troubadours, given their proclivity for landing in unfortunate situations, were encouraged to continue their weapon-work throughout the course of their studies. Jaskier, both eyes already on the horizon, hadn’t needed convincing. His contemporaries might not have shared his enthusiasm, but they all agreed on the necessity. 

Priscilla had tried a little bit of everything, including a terrifying Ofieri practice that involved a good deal of kicking and crushing appendages between her thighs. Valdo--may his lute strings always snap--had insisted on the bow, the charlatan. He’d gotten (admittedly) _decent_ at it too, but the predictability of it had been so offensive to Jaskier’s romantic sensibilities at the time that he’d written a truly scathing (and deftly complex) sestina on the subject and performed it in front of the entire college. It was one of Jaskier’s fondest memories--and it evaporated under the hot sun hanging over Lily.

Soren was waiting for him in the courtyard. 

Unlike Shani, the man actually did look the same as the last time Jaskier had seen him, nearly a decade ago. The Quartermaster was a half-elf. He’d been there since before Jaskier’s time, since before some of the lecturers too, and, despite his grizzled face, his hair remained raven-dark, making it impossible to guess his age. Shani had sworn once (while completely soused, mind you) that if they got her a tooth she could pin it down to within a season, but none of them had been brave enough (or stupid enough) to try.

The Quartermaster offered no word of greeting. But if there was one thing Jaskier was an expert at (besides poetry, music, carousing, seduction, and continental history) it was the profound range of silence.

The Northern side of Lily Courtyard was lined with weapon racks: polearms; daggers and swords; axes and hammers. Jaskier went for the one in center, scanning quickly across the offerings. He could feel Soren’s gaze pressing into his back. _Any day now_ , it said. Jaskier pulled a short-sword, and turned.

Soren had stepped closer without his hearing. From five feet away, Jaskier could see the razor thin scar along his jaw. And the judgment in his gaze.

“You’ve gotten rusty.”

Jaskier rolled his shoulders back. The blade was a bit long for his taste, but it handled well. “I’ve been in the habit of trading barbs, not blows.”

He tested the point with his thumb, one eye on Soren. The Quartermaster had selected his own blade--a sword, naturally, to make it a matched bout--but unlike Jaskier’s rapier, Soren’s blade had a slight curve. 

“Wouldn’t do for a bard to go soft--only just last week, dear Priscilla had listeners take umbrage to one of her limericks.” 

Jaskier pulled a face, parrying Soren’s exploratory thrust. “What’s she doing spouting limericks?”

“Jaskier--”

Jaskier waved aside the chiding tone. “How’d the fools fare?”

Soren turned the saber in his grip and sliced upwards, forcing Jaskier to dance backward or lose the laces on his doublet. “Hamstring’d one. The other’ll be pissing blood for a least a week after the near gutting she gave him.”

“Good girl.” Jaskier feinted left, then hooked his sword against the curve of Soren’s, hoping to pull him off balance. It was a cheeky move--one the Quartermaster countered easily, stepping into the pull rather than be overtaken by it. Unlike the saber, Jaskier’s sword was too long to turn in such tight quarters. He spun away gracelessly--and Soren let him go with a smirk. While Soren was poised and confident, Jaskier was already short of breath, sweat dotting the back of his neck.

“Alright,” Jaskier admitted. “A little rusty.”

Soren turned the saber, switching to a reverse hold. His other hand he held in a fist at the small of his back--and, alright, that _stung_ \--but Jaskier knew when he was being baited.

“Running from something?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Jaskier lunged. The sword was quick in his hand, familiar; Soren was quicker. He pirouetted away, saber dancing in the light but only raised to guard, not to strike. An effortless movement that Jaskier committed to memory, even as he pressed his attack. Steel met steel in a rapid exchange. Soren wasn’t retaliating, but Jaskier couldn’t find a way to break through his defense (and still his right hand remained at his back).

“Remember your footwork.”

Jaskier adjusted his stance automatically at the correction, just in time to avoid a sweep. And Soren struck--a hard downward slice that took all Jaskier’s strength to parry. It exposed his left side, just for a moment, but the Quartermaster was a viper. The saber turned in his grip again, thrusting upwards, and it was Jaskier’s turn to pirouette away. He spun half on instinct, half memory--trying to match the way Soren’s body had twisted. It wasn’t nearly as graceful, but he avoided the strike and added distance.

Jaskier brought his sword up between them. He was truly sweating now, and forgotten muscles ached from old strains. He wouldn’t be able to keep going much longer. But Soren didn’t close the gap; instead, his gaze moved over him critically before declaring: “Not terrible.”

“Thank the fucking gods.” The shortsword tumbled from Jaskier’s tired hands, and it was an impressive demonstration of will (than you very much) that he didn’t give in to his exhaustion and just sit right down in the dirt. 

“Can I take a bath now?”

\---

Soren had let him go, with the understanding that he’d be resuming his weapons practice first thing the next morning. And for every foreseeable morning after. The few choice epithets Jaskier let loose hadn’t fazed the Quartertmaster, nor altered his edict: in whatever capacity Jaskier was going to remain at the Academy, the true condition for his stay was Soren’s. He could either assent, or leave.

Jaskier had thus retired to the baths to nurse the muscles wrenched throughout his back and indulge in a good sulk. He’d managed it for a good hour before the heat uncoiled the lingering tension in him, and his sour disposition eased. The food that had been sent down hadn’t hurt either.

“Enjoying yourself?” Shani strode through the doorway, showing no regard for decorum, decency, or Jaskier’s personal understanding of privacy (which was, admittedly, _very_ low).

“Immensely.” He dunked his head beneath the water, washing clear the sweat from his face. When he surfaced, Shani was standing above him. Her eyes never wavered from his, despite the bath’s clear azure waters, and Jaskier reminded himself she’d seen it all before. _Healers_.

“Your things are still in the archives, of course.”

“Good.”

“Deckerman agreed to let you have your old job back.”

“Bless every gray hair on his chinny chin chin.”

“It hardly took any convincing at all,” she admitted, and Jaskier chose to read her tone as ‘impressed’ rather than surprised. “You made quite a name for yourself as the Witcher’s bard. A ‘prized commodity,’ he called you.”

Ah, that. It always came back to that, didn’t it? He’d demand to know how his story became so inextricably tied to Geralt’s, if he didn’t already know the answer. (His own stubbornness; his own grasping, consumptive nature).

“Not too hard. Sing a few catchy tunes, let yourself get captured by a rock troll or two and suddenly you’re ‘a Witcher’s bard’.” He flicked water from his fingers, and deadpanned, “Give it a whirl.”

Shani shook her head. “Geralt and I already had our whirl.”

“Mm. I’d forgotten.” He hadn’t. 

Jaskier didn’t begrudge her any for her tryst with Geralt; if he took umbrage at every woman Geralt had tumbled, he’d run out of umbrage. It was just easier to be...unaffected. Back then, it had been a matter of convenience (as soon as someone learned of their friendship it was ‘kidnap this’ and ‘punishment that’). Now it felt like a means of survival. He wanted to talk of anything other than _him_ , wanted the connection between them to snap away clean--not leave him frayed and unraveling.

“I make a mean chamomile too,” he added, picking petulantly at his meal. “Throw that out, see if it’ll sweeten the pot.”

“The pot’s plenty sweet.” Shani studied him with a frown, hands on hips. Jaskier ignored her and stuffed two more grapes into his mouth. He looked up when she sighed and found her toeing off her boots.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t reply, but sat down at the edge of his bath and pulled off her stockings, stuffing them into her boots. Jaskier raised an eyebrow; she raised one back. With a huff he looked away and Shani dangled her now-bare legs into the hot water, leaning back on her hands. If he was expecting her to say more, she wasn’t about to oblige and he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. So for several minutes they sat together in silence with only the sounds of water shifting against stone and skin. The steam curled around them. 

“You were missed, you know.” She said it quietly, the way one would when they feared the hearer might not believe it. “ _I_ missed you.”

And just like that his petulance broke. With it came the weight of his sorrow. And his relief--however bittersweet. The water lapped at his chin as he sank lower, but he found Shani’s foot beneath the water and gave it a fond tug.

“And I you.”

She nudged him with her foot, then again until he obliged with a huff and pulled it closer with both hands. His thumbs pressed into her arch, working at the cramped muscles from heel to toe with practiced precision.

“ _Jas_.” The water eddied between them. “...what happened?”

Jaskier stilled. For a moment, his mind was off somewhere else--slipping so easily back to Geralt, to that night before Cintra, and a bath laced with lavender. _“_

_The last thing I want is someone needing me.”_

_“And yet, here we are.”_

How long ago for the wound to feel so fresh. He tapped at Shani’s ankle until she switched over, crossing her other foot into his reach. He felt her waiting, the thoughts turning over in his head. At last he said, “I think I lost my way.”

“Nonsense,” Shani murmured. “You’re a _troubadour_. ‘All ways are our ways.’”

“‘No Path but the road,’” Jaskier finished. 

The code. Words every bard recited before leaving Oxenfurt. Trust Shani, who’d never even set foot in the halls of a college that wasn’t her own, to recite the troubadours’ code back at him. His path from Posada had been different than he’d expected, but, no, he hadn’t lost it. He had wanted to see the world--adventure and monsters--and that was the way he’d gone. Winding (and wonderful).

He looked up at Shani. Beautiful, perfect Shani. The ends of her hair had curled in the damp heat, and her eggshell chemise clung to the jut of her collarbone. Perhaps, in a different life...

“My heart then.”

At that, Shani smiled. Leaning down, she brushed the damp hair from his brow. How many times had she done the same thing, known that what he craved was just the smallest show of tenderness? 

“You’ll find it again,” she assured him and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You always do.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. His fingers landing light on the back of her wrist. “You, Shani...are worth a hundred footrubs.”

“I know.”

\---

With so many troubadours bouncing back and forth between professorships, the Academy allowed each of its graduates a single chest of storage in the upper library. He found his with the aid of the archivist on duty for the night, a young woman with pleasant face. She left him kneeling at the foot of the large chest with her lantern and made her way confidently back in the dark. 

Truth be told, there wasn’t much of value inside. An old doublet he’d sworn would come back into fashion (it had not), his first flute, numerous sheafs of parchment held together by precarious stitching, and a golden ring in the bottom corner, dull and dusty, bearing an ornate ‘L.’ He’d sold, traded, or taken most everything of value when he’d graduated.

 _Most_ everything. 

He found what he was looking for tangled in a scrap of unbleached linen: a perfectly balanced stiletto, silver filigree bleeding from the guard into the grip. It was one of a matched set, though the other scabbard on the belt hung empty. Losing it had been one of his greatest devastations those first years on the road, but the loss was tempered by knowing the forktail in whose eye he’d lost it had appreciated it far less. He’d wanted to take the pair of them to begin with, but two blades at arms was an invitation. A hidden blade was an advantage. 

He turned the sheathed blade over in his hands. His hair, still wet from his bath, had dampened his collar, making his shirt stick. It wasn’t his--he’d borrowed it from the stockpile for new scholars and the roughspun made his skin itch. The loop of the scabbard buckled easily around his belt. In the faint glow of the lantern, the box before him seemed almost empty and lined with shadow. Twenty years and he still had next to nothing to his name. 

But he had his name.

His hand settled on the lid as he took one last look, his gaze lingering on the ring for one, sharp moment, and then he firmly closed the chest. 

_Back to the beginning then._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he knew how Yennefer felt -- decades on this earth (studying every scrap of their lore he could find) and now he couldn’t go six months without running into a Witcher. 

* * *

_ Summer _

The days turned slowly to weeks. Those weeks stumbling--then racing--into months. And Summer came to Oxenfurt. 

Jaskier’s students were marvelous--though, that was to be expected, being  _ his _ students after all-- and there wasn’t one he would’ve traded; not even Patrick, who insisted on working jabs about his age into every song he submitted. Teaching occupied only a fraction of his time, and, since the governance of his classes was left entirely up to him, he ran them in the salon style--throwing out ideas with the expectation that his students would volley them back. Sometimes, he held class in the back gardens, sometimes the meal hall--and, on one memorable occasion, while they were at weapons practice.

He challenged and was challenged by his students in equal measure. After the first week (where he’d spent two-thirds of each day unconscious in his lovely feather bed), he was up at all hours, roaming the school. As soon as his students discovered this, they’d seek him out--sometimes alone, but more often in pairs or dragging a scholar from a different school along. He’d help them work out a knotted rhyme-scheme, or talk with them about their studies and their frustrations; often, they’d simply sit awhile and play together, ad-libbing harmonies and chord progressions, with no purpose other than to make music.

He continued his own studies as well--more often than not his evening’s wanderings leading him to the library and its archives. 

And he continued to practice with Soren every morning until he was no longer out of breath, until his arms stopped aching every time he lifted his quill. Until Soren stopped fighting one-handed and color began to rise faint and damning in his face. Until--

“Is that sweat, I see?”

“Don’t bait your opponents,” Soren growled. 

“Why not?” Jaskier laughed. “Because it’s working?”

The half-elf met his double-strike with two parries in quick succession, and Jaskier darted back to keep out of his reach. Soren spun one of his long daggers into a reverse hold, then back again--trying to throw Jaskier off. He wouldn’t be distracted by something as simple as slight of hand; Jaskier began to move, forcing Soren to move or leave his left side open..

“How has no one killed you yet?” Soren demanded, turning as he circled to present the smallest target. Jaskier mirrored him, laughing.

“Too handsome, I should think.” 

“Did Geralt think so?”

Jaskier froze--only for a second. But Soren only needed one.

Steel caught his upper arm, rending cloth and skin. Jaskier stumbled several steps back, gracelessly putting distance between them--but Soren didn’t press his advantage. Jaskier could feel the blood running, pooling in the crook of his elbow, but the sweet-sharp sting was a distant pain compared to the sick heat of embarrassment burning through him. Both of Soren’s daggers were inverted in his grip: he’d changed techniques mid-approach and Jaskier hadn’t been able to adjust fast enough. He’d let the Quartermaster catch him offguard, like an idiotic first-year.

“That’s why.”

“That,” Jaskier muttered, “was a cheap shot.”

Soren shrugged. “No such thing as cheap shots—”

“—‘only ones that hit,’” Jaskier finished, examining the now ragged and bloody sleeve of his shirt. “I  _ know. _ ”

Soren pointed with the hilt of his dagger--the one still red with Jaskier’s blood--scolding, “You let yourself be distracted.”

Jaskier scoffed. “And I got  _ scratched _ .”

“This time.”

The counter needled Jaskier, his earlier humor turning to sharp mockery. “Were you always this petty?”

“To be known is to be vulnerable. I knew all it took was a well-placed name to catch you off your guard, and I took advantage of it.”

Jaskier’s frustration was a current of noise: pushing, pulling at his nerves. He might not have lived as long as Soren, but he wasn’t some moon-eyed human, constrained by a finite understanding of life. He understood the world more than Soren realized.

“I want to be known,” he retorted. “Why do you think I talk so much?” 

There was a defiant edge in his voice--only a fool would have missed it. Soren’s eyes flashed. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid.” 

Jaskier threw himself forward. 

No pirouettes or whirling blades; no feints. The full press of his weight slammed into Soren--catching him flat-footed--and Jaskier struck with both stilettos at once. A Cat School trick.

Soren’s dagger bounced across the courtyard in a spray of dirt. The other was locked tight in the cross-hilt of Jaskier’s stiletto--Soren’s counter brought short by his own trick: Jaskier had turned his left-hand at the last moment, sweeping up at an angle the other man hadn’t expected. And the other---. 

Jaskier was close enough to hear Soren’s stiff inhale; to see his own heavy breath move the dark strands of the other man’s hair. 

He’d struck him just below his heart. The tip of the blade pierced the leather of Soren’s chest armor, stopping a hairsbreadth from breaking the skin, and Jaskier was torn between righteous pride and unsettling shock. He’d always pulled his strikes: close enough to concede the point, never so close he risked serious injury. But this time-- 

Soren’s fingers settled lightly on the back of the blade, his attention never leaving Jaskier’s face. Jaskier blinked and looked down at Soren’s hand, at the blade--seeing neither. He took a slow breath. And the wave of noise in his mind receded. He lowered the stiletto, his grip still tight on the hilt. When he looked up, he was surprised to see Soren’s expression had shifted to something a fool might have mistaken for pride.

“So why are you still here?”

\----

Naturally, as soon as word got out that he was leaving, they insisted on throwing a farewell party.

There were several toasts--most of them in good taste; numerous poems (which he’d inspired, was featured in, or that his students penned extemporaneously on the spot in his honor); and an impromptu display of several partygoers’ Jaskier impersonations. All of this, of course, preceded and maintained by copious amounts of drink.

As the party was finally beginning to wind down, Shani found him sprawled out on a mess of cushions, taking a well-earned rest after several rounds of dancing.

“I really thought I’d be here longer,” Jaskier admitted as Shani joined him on the pillows. Looking out across the courtyard beneath its web of streamers and lantern light, he felt a deep pang of fondness for the Academy, and for the home he’d found within its walls.

He was still admiring the place when he realized Shani was shaking her head. “You’ve had one foot out the door since you got here,” she declared with her usual bluntness. Jaskier--who’d had a fair amount to drink over the course of the evening--couldn’t conceal his surprise. Shani merely shrugged. “It’s always been that way.”

Was it true? He’d come to Oxenfurt to get his feet back under him and to shake off some of the rust regarding his fighting skills. That, and a free place to stay, was as far as his plans had gotten on the way down the mountain. “I didn’t realize,” was all he could think to say.

“No path but the road,” Shani repeated. “It’s true for you, more than anyone. You belong out there.”

There was no higher compliment to Jaskier. All he could say was “thanks” and wish he had half of Yennefer’s powers, just so he could teleport Shani to and fro whenever he needed a pick-me-up.

“Write me? Not all of us have centuries to spare, you know—and I plan on living vicariously through you.”

Jaskier tapped his glass against hers; a promise, even if he couldn’t find the words for it. She grinned and downed the last of her ale, sealing the toast. But when she stood to go, Jaskier was struck with a sudden certainty--a feeling that it would be a  _ very _ long time before they saw each other again.

“You’re a singular soul, Shani,” he told her.

Maybe she’d felt that certainty too, or maybe he was that transparent, because she paused a moment before reaching back. She squeezed his shoulder, pink in her cheeks from drink and celebration.

“Just don’t write any songs about me, ok? The fame would go straight to my head.”

\----

An hour after sunrise, Ganymede was saddled and Jaskier was on his way out of town--all his goodbyes carefully exchanged the evening before, and all the revelers still guaranteed to be abed for several hours longer.

He’d set out from Oxenfurt in a summer just like this one--barely eighteen. Too eager, too certain of his talents--though, he’d not been far off the mark on the later. In a world as grand and as beautiful as this one, what other task was worthy of a mind like his but that of a bard--traveling the Continent, telling of the dangers and the wonders he’d seen. He’d spent his school-years learning everything he could about the fall of the elves, the rise of monsters and of Witchers. While others had learned scores of courtly dances, or the way to bend a play to the audience’s ear--Jaskier had cared only for words. The  _ heart _ of things.

Bored with the contemporary trend towards lyrics abstractions--the ineffability of time, and other equally benign drivel-- Jaskier had focused his studies on the historical: resuscitating old rhyme schemes and forgotten forms, digging up tales of the World That Was on which to model his own creations. He spent hours researching elven lore--the only ones to have seen both sides of the Conjunction and cared enough to preserve those memories--painstakingly translating ballads and epics from Elder Speech (and if his mother had still been alive she’d have laughed to see him put to use the lessons he’d once so begrudgingly sat through).

The elves’ memory was long and their fascination with humanity’s baseness a fixed constant. He remembered his parents laughing over it, staging a mock argument for his amusement.  _ How could a race persist for centuries seeking out precisely what was worst for them? _ His mother would demand. And his father, ever ready for a laugh, would ask why her people “persisted for centuries” in asking. (They’d made sure his childhood was full of laughter).

Only once he’d gotten access to the Academy’s wellspring of texts and archives, did he begin to piece together the disparate timelines of the world. Elves. Beasts. And mentions of strange men, uncommonly strong and able to access a strand of chaos outside the weave of Elves’ magic.  _ Witchers. _ Of course he’d heard mention of them growing up--the perennial boogeymen, the kind who snatched up little boys who tracked mud into the house. He’d never seen one of course, there being few monsters in Lettenhove and so little need of monster hunters. Uncommon, his father had called them (a ‘dying breed,’ said his mother, with uncharacteristic severity). 

He’d managed to trace their origins nearly back to the Conjunction itself (a hobby that he indulged in with increasing frequency), and so, by the time he graduated the Academy and set out for the road, it was with a mind to seek out any information that coincided with the first Witchers--the perfect characters to feature in his songs and poems. (He’d taken steel then too, as all bards did. More often than not, an angry patron could be soothed with a fresh drink or a tactical application of his charms, but, on occasion, there’d been a call to brandish his blade.) 

It’s why he’d been in Posada in the first place: he’d been following a lead in Dol Blathanna. Given the unrest at the time and his own mixed parentage, he hadn’t been able to secure safe passage to the ruins he’d intended to search. The ramshackle town had been the closest human settlement for miles, and he’d negotiated a deal with the tavern owner to play for his room and board--a temporary arrangement while he figured out his next move.

And then a living, breathing Witcher had chosen the corner of that self-same tavern to brood in.

  
  


He’d had little reason to pull a blade when traveling with Geralt. The man’s presence alone was off-putting to all but the stupidest of thugs. And Jaskier slept soundly at night, knowing any beasty that dared draw near could never catch the Witcher by surprise. And when they parted ways, for weeks or months at a time, Jaskier never had the need to fight, for the reputation of the Butcher of Blaviken followed after, wrapping him in its influence. A charm and a wink worked as well as steel.

A different life now.

Instead of a Witcher at his back, he had his blades. They were comforting enough companions in the long nights on the road--certainly no less talkative than Geralt had been--still, Jaskier found himself lying awake long into that first night. (And every night after.)

The stars wheeled overhead -- the Scorpion descending on the Hare; the Maiden at her loom -- and Jaskier eventually resigned himself to nights of half-rest. Perhaps he’d taken for granted having a Witcher to guard him in the night--or perhaps it was having a traveling companion of any kind. As much as he adored Ganymede, not even the best of horses could replace another rational being.

He’d learned more about the interior lives of Witchers from Geralt than any other scholar had managed to record in all the years between, and even that knowledge had come in crumbs. Wisps of conversations half started over the dying coals of their campfire, or the occasional correction to a townsperson’s repeated rumor. He’d lapped it all up at the start, but as his own adventures took off, the compulsion to tell the stories of the long-dead faded. (To  _ tell _ , maybe--but not to discover.)

Even as he began to sing of the White Wolf’s daring deeds, his curiosity remained--something he’d never learned to curb--and he continued to gather their stories and their secrets, filling in the long gaps of history. Particularly, when it came to the School of the Cat. Fighters focusing on agility and precision that had slipped into an order of assassins, spies, and hired thugs. Jaskier had learned a few of their clever knife tricks from Soren, who’d only relented after months of haranguing and where  _ he’d _ learned them Jaskier had never found out.

Anyone with a passing awareness of Witchers’ history knew of the massacre orchestrated by King Radowit II. The Kaedweni king had decided that instead of financing two schools, he could--with only a bit of subterfuge--spend the coin on neither. The prevailing theory was that Radowit had promised the Cats the exclusive rights to monster hunting in Kaedwen, so long as they... _ convinced _ the Wolves to move their school elsewhere. The Schools had met to test their skills against one another in friendly competition, and the Cats had pounced. Only when a dozen Wolves littered the tournament grounds did Radowit move in -- his men and mages indiscriminately attacking Wolf and Cat alike. The Witchers were decimated, their growing schools sundered, and the surviving members forced to flee Kaedwen.

But the Cats’ betrayal had run deeper than hunting rights and broken faith:  _ they’d bartered gold for every Witcher killed. _ Taken money to stab their brothers in the back in a cold contract that defied the Witchers’ code and branded them oathbreakers and outcasts. The schools had separated for good reason in the intervening years, and though Bears and Griffins were well-met on the Path, the remaining Cats had been shunned. Left to go mad and fall to in-fighting. Although they’d gotten the occasional leads on the remains or gear of a former Cat, Geralt had never made more than a cursory effort to search. 

“No Witcher chooses coin over their brothers. Ever.”

  
  


Now, of course, there was nothing hedging his curiosity. He’d not been idle in Oxenfurt. What little clues he’d gleaned from Geralt, Jaskier had compared to the histories stored away in the Academy archives and the scraps of bloodied journals retrieved from caves and ruins, surreptitiously copied after Geralt had gone on watch. And he’d left with a little more in his saddlebags than a pair of swords.

It was three weeks’ ride, but he was confident he’d located an old Cat’s hideaway.

\----

If he was being honest, going in alone had-- _ probably _ \--been an idiotic thing to do. The riddles that had beset each chamber had been easy enough to solve and surmount; his brain had always moved rather quickly (though rarely as fast as his mouth). It was the monster that had since infested the ruins that had nearly separated his being from the mortal realm.

A kikimora. Ugly bastard, it had grown fat and mean in the dark while remaining unfairly fast. Jaskier’s dark vision was atrocious and it was only his forethinking and a notice-me-not glamour that kept him from being taken completely by surprise. But in the end, he’d emerged battered and bruised, two carefully inked diagrams for Cat silver and steel stuffed into his belt.

* * *

_ Autumn _

After waking up for the third time in as many nights, shivering and stumbling out from beneath thin blankets to re-stoke the fire in his room, Jaskier was forced to concede autumn, lovely as she’d been, was at her end. Winter was coming quick to the Continent, and he’d need to plan accordingly. Oxenfurt was always an option. Shani’s letters had been full of anecdotes from the Academy--the scholars and the professors getting into mischief in equal measure. Her most recent one, however, had responded to his nostalgic retelling of the yuletide celebration in his second year with a threat to, in no uncertain terms, “stitch his mouth shut” if he even thought about coming back. 

Shani needn’t have worried: he had a taste for something new. Something  _ far _ . And he remembered Triss speaking fondly of Kovir. She’d often traveled there at the behest of King Foltest, and had even let slip once to Jaskier, as they worked their way through a cask of Beauclair White, that she might even like to retire there, once she was in a retiring mood. It sounded as idyllic a place as any--beyond Touissant--and finding a worthy enough place to winter was a godsend to a bard. No one traveled once the snows came if they could help it, least of all a bard whose very livelihood depending on their extremities (all eleven of them) staying in fine, working order.

The kingdom’s infamous political neutrality extended to its climate -- mild temperature, predictable weather, and seasons that blurred into one another. Being on the Gulf of Praxeda it had the tendency to rain a fair amount in the Spring and Summer, but that same warm wind kept the temperature from dropping too far in the winter. There would certainly be snow, but Jaskier didn’t mind that nearly half so much as he despised the biting cold.

It was also one of the richest realms in the North, owing to the wealth of their mines and the blessed free market. The House of Thyssen had been steadfast patrons of the arts for as long as they’d held the monarchy, and anyone with an excess of wealth in their pockets was a friend to Jaskier. It would be easy to ingratiate himself and find a place in the court for the season, particularly since the winter capital was housed in Lan Exeter, where the Koviri University also resided.

The city, situated at the mouth of the Targo, was built entirely around the Grand Canal, which led directly from the Gulf to the royal residence. Any roads that existed were the result of countless passing footsteps, for the main mode of transport was the canal itself, its cool waters crowded with merchant vessels and gondolas ferrying citizens from place to place. It sounded wildly impractical to Jaskier and therefore he supported the indulgence unconditionally.

There were many ports from Cidaris to Redania, all filled with boats that would make the journey to Kovir. But though the water threatening to freeze over in his washbasin was reason enough to set sail at the nearest harbor, if he left now, he could make it back to Novigrad before the frost and take care of one last piece of business...

\----

“These are meant to be longswords.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Hattori.”

“Hmph. Flattery is worth something, I suppose...come back in two days.  _ With coin. _ ”

“You know I’m good for it! In fact, I think I’ll keep you company--right by this toasty forge here...excuse me--”

“Jaskier--”

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse!”

“Doubtful. No--ugh. Not there, over here--and keep your feet off my workbench.”

“ _ Yessir. _ ”

“...these are Witcher diagrams.”

“Right again. Really, Hattori, I don’t know why anyone would go to Lafargue when the most gifted and astute blacksmith is right here in Novigrad.”

“Do I want to know how they came into your possession?”

“It’s Geralt. I killed him for it and dumped his body in the Yaruga.”

“...perhaps silence after all.”

* * *

_ Winter _

_ Autumn's scents have pervaded the air, _

_ The wind stole the words from our lips, _

_ That's the way it must be, please don't shed, _

_ Those diamonds that run down your cheeks. _

_ Your home all surrounded by snow, _

_ Glassy frost covers rivers and lakes, _

_ That's the way it must be, please don't show, _

_ This yearning and grief on your face. _

_ When the spring comes along with the rain, _

_ The sun will warm up us both, _

_ That's the way it must be for we burn, _

_ With fire eternal like hope. _

Jaskier finished his set to hearty applause. The patrons had all but caroused themselves into a tizzy during his performance, and so, as a favor to the owner of the establishment so kindly waving the fees for his room and board, he’d added one last song--a ballad--to soften the exuberance in the room. It was an old song, but the party at which he’d first performed it carried fond memories for Jaskier, and the lyrics were fitting for the season. He’d left the frigid cold behind in Novigrad. Winter had not yet ventured across the sea and he hoped it would hold off long enough for his travel up the coast to remain pleasant.

Settling his lute carefully over his shoulder he took one last, effusive bow, collected the coins scattered in and near his cup, and headed for the barkeep. So preoccupied was he with quenching his thirst after an hour of song, that at first he didn’t quite realize what he was seeing--it was only the prickly tingle of awareness that dragged his attention back to the man who, by all accounts, shouldn’t have warranted his attention at all.

He was sitting at the far end of the wooden bar, not quite back-to-the-wall but not entirely at ease either. Despite his proximity to the other patrons and the way conversation and laughter continued to flow around him, there was no mistaking who--or at least,  _ what _ \--he was.

_ Melitele’s tits. _

Now he knew how Yennefer felt -- decades on this earth (studying every scrap of their lore he could find) and now he couldn’t go six months without running into a Witcher. He was Geralt’s opposite in coloring--rich auburn hair, tied back, and no trace of cat’s eyes (though he couldn’t clock their color at this distance). He was less broad in the shoulders too, but trim, and the sharp lines of his jaw were softened by sun-warmed skin.

Intellectually, he knew no Witcher emerged from the mutations the same--his own studies had detailed the order of men as diverse as any other--yet, it was another thing entirely to see it for himself. Geralt had mentioned in passing his Wolf brothers, but he hadn’t waxed poetic on their appearances, leaving Jaskier to know little of the school’s remaining members but their fighting styles and a small idea of their bearing. For all that this one was  _ different _ (and he was certainly no Wolf), there was no mistaking him for human. His entire being radiated a magnetic  _ otherness _ that pulled at Jaskier’s own.

With all the prescience at his disposal, Jaskier caught the eye of the barmaid a breath before the Witcher turned. The man’s gaze was a tangible weight, a sliding studying of a new body entering his space. Jaskier measured his breath--four counts in, four counts out--the tartness of wine at the back of his teeth. “Another, my lovely--thank you,” he ordered, passing the woman his empty cup. 

He felt the eyes linger--and resisted every urge to turn into the attention, the buzzing pull of like recognizing like. (It didn’t matter.) He knew the moment the Witcher recognized him--damn the fame brought by catchy lyrics extolling fair wages for honest work--his gaze alighting on the lute at Jaskier’s back, then taking in the rest of him with sharper interest. The slight shift in posture, the half-pause as the pieces connected--

“I know you.” The man’s voice was surprisingly friendly, though it contained no surprise itself. “You travel with Geralt.”

Jaskier ran his tongue over his teeth. There was plenty he could say to that, but the simple truth would do: “I did.”

“Mm.” And Jaskier, conditioned to accept that grunt as all he’d get in response, nearly dropped his drink when the Witcher turned to face him fully and pushed out a chair with his boot. “I’m Coën.”

That earned him Jaskier’s full attention, and he turned his face, coyly resting his chin on his shoulder. “Jaskier.”

“Care to join me?”

He pretended to consider, as if curiosity wasn’t the worst and best part of his nature. Biting at the inside of his cheek, Jaskier slid into the offered chair, pulling his drink along the bartop with him. “So,” he drawled, settling into a comfortable sprawl. “What’s a Witcher like you doing in a place like this?”

Coën tipped his tankard forward. “ _ Drinking _ . You?”

Jaskier’s lips curled at the edges. He raised his own glass. “Just passing through,” he answered and took a drink.

“We have that in common.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Really? No basilisks to slay? No curses to lift?”

“It’s been a slow week. Not all of us keep the same illustrious company as Geralt.”

_ Right.  _ (This time, Jaskier didn’t freeze.)

“Are you from Kovir?”

“Poviss actually,” Coën answered. “Though...that was some time ago.”

“Define ‘some’?”

Coën smirked. “A lady doesn’t tell.”

And Jaskier was pleasantly surprised when he laughed.  _ Honest _ laughter, not the smirks and coy chuckles he used to tempt rich duchesses to his bed or coin from patrons’ purses. Being handsome was one thing; that he was funny as well was out of the question. A bard could start getting ideas.

“I--” Coën trailed off. The openness of his expression closed in again, his gaze shifting to a point behind Jaskier.

Jaskier didn’t turn. Rather, he used the time to admire Coën’s profile, trying to guess the number of weapons on his person. “Who is it?”

Coën hummed, tongue-in cheek. “Town’s alderman, by the looks of him.”

_ At least five _ , Jaskier wagered; only then did he glance over his shoulder. A man was approaching their corner, his literal hat in hand. He was a bit more finely dressed than the tavern’s other patrons, though that wasn’t saying much, and a slender chain of office hung around his neck. Alderman, indeed.

“Master Witcher?” Coën’s eyebrows shot up, and he caught Jaskier’s gaze before giving the man his full attention--a look of blank interest (exponentially more welcoming than any scowl of Geralt) painting his features.

“Pardon me, sir-- _ sirs _ ,” he quickly corrected when he realized that Jaskier was actually in the Witcher’s company; Jaskier tipped his head in greeting, smiling cheerily. The alderman turned back to Coën, his hat twisted in his hands. “I’d heard tell a Witcher was stayin’ here and so I come to beg for your help.”

“You’ve a monster needs killing?”

The man sighed in relief. “Ghouls.”

“You’re sure?”

The alderman nodded. “We ain’t got much to offer monsters round here--savin’ for them drowners down by the port, and the cemetery’s too far for them. It’s not the first time, neither. Us having ghouls, I mean.” 

Curious as he was, Jaskier didn’t interrupt. When the man at last paused in his anxious rambling, it was Coën who asked, “How did you get rid of them before?”

“Normally, we’d wait for them to move on--” the alderman explained. “But with the frost coming, well we’ve got bodies need gettin’ in the ground.”

“I understand.”

“You do?--I mean, you’ll help?” He was so earnest, Jaskier couldn’t help feeling an immediate fondness for the man. He’d gotten so used to people demanding help, he’d almost forgotten how it sounded to be asked. Of course, Coën would take it--it was too easy a contract this close to winter. Yet Coën hesitated--a perfectly timed pause--and the alderman rushed to assure him, “We can pay you. 70 gold.”

Jaskier hid his smile in his drink.

“Alright,” Coën agreed. As amiable as the man had been he didn’t shake on it, and Coën didn’t offer a hand.

“You can leave the money with the innkeep.”

The man mumbled his thanks once more before hastily retreating, Jaskier calling,“it was a pleasure talking to you,” in a singsong after him. 

With the alderman now gone, Jaskier turned to Coën with interest, idly tipping his mug back and forth.

“Not used to being recognized?” he asked, and, at Coën’s uncertain look, gestured after the retreating alderman. “You seemed surprised.”

“ _ Ah.  _ No--the swords do tend to give it away,” Coën smiled. He shrugged. “I’m not used to being approached so...politely.” 

Jaskier wasn’t surprised. The superstition of old prejudices were hard to outgrow, and the line between monster and its slayer all too easy to blur when both went bump in the night. But just because he understood, didn’t mean he was happy about it or that he wasn’t frustrated by the slow drag of progress.

“I suppose I have you to thank for that?”

Warmth curled in Jaskier’s belly, threatening to move into dangerous territory. The longer he lingered, the more likely he’d do something profoundly stupid. (Well, stupider than flirt with a Witcher). “I haven’t written any songs about you,” he pointed out, tossing back the last of his drink; adding,“ _ yet, _ ” before licking a drop of spilled wine from his thumb.

“I should be so lucky.” And Jaskier wasn’t imagining the heat in the Witcher’s eyes. Then--“I’m afraid I must take my leave.” 

Maybe it was because he was tired of singing about wildflowers and buxom maids. Maybe it was the way the tavern light hit the planes of Coën’s face. But the words left Jaskier’s mouth before he could stop them: 

“Do you mind?” 

“Mind?”

“I’ve grown terribly bored.”

The witcher seemed to take his measure--and what could Jaskier do under such attractive, roving eyes but preen? He found his light and looked up expectantly at the other man, resting his chin on the back of his hand. There wasn’t a blade in sight, but Coën knew he’d traveled with Geralt, and something told Jaskier that he wouldn’t be so easily fooled. When the witcher’s survey ended at his face, Jaskier winked. 

And the amusement Coën had been holding back spilled into a lopsided smile. 

“Not rusty?”

Jaskier smiled a wolf’s grin. “Not rusty.”

\----

The cemetery was about a mile outside of town.

Not terribly far, but with night quickly descending, they decided to ride out--the stable hand being so kind as to point them in the right direction. The ghouls would come when night had truly settled. All they had to do was set up in the cemetery and wait. They found a good, flat spot near the top where several graves showed signs of ghoulish neighbors. Ganymede wanted to stay, of course, but Jaskier scratched his nose and murmured his reassurances and sent him down the hill to wait. Coën checked his double swords, adjusting the draw--preparing himself, though he only made a cursory check of the potions in his saddlebag before leaving his horse to join Ganymede in grazing down the hill. Jaskier watched him from his chosen vantage point: a stone monument that listed at just the right angle for him to lean against. 

“So are you just here to watch,” Coën mused--a playful lilt to the question. “Or do I have to worry about you taking on the contract yourself?”

Jaskier laughed outright--the idea so genuinely ridiculous, he could hardly fathom it. “I’ve no interest in taking up monster killing.”

“Are those blades just for show then?”

Jaskier flicked the edge of his jacket, flashing the stiletto at his side. “This old thing?”

Coën nodded. “And the other one.”

Jaskier pulled the stiletto’s twin from its hidden pocket inside the lining of his doublet. Utterly imperceptible from a distance, the entire set-up had been self-designed and tailored to preserve the illusion of a harmless (and slim-waisted) bard. Someone had been keeping a  _ very _ close eye. He spun the stiletto with careful carelessness and closed his jacket over the other.

“Well go on, then. Show me your Witchering.” Jaskier smirked, “Or are  _ yours _ just for show?”

Coën drew his sword, a clean easy movement that brought the blade from its scabbard to a ready position before him a single sweep. Then Coën lowered it just as smoothly, and Jaskier let out a disappointed huff. “You’ll see it soon enough. Might not be the show you’re used to, but it’ll do the trick.”

“I don’t know much about Griffins, that’s true,” Jaskier admitted. “My experience has been in Wolves, my studies in Cats.”

Coën’s expression tightened--just for a moment--and Jaskier knew he’d blindsided him with his mention of the Cats. The bad blood extended, it would seem.

“A dangerous choice of study,” Coën said in a careful tone. 

“And yet I can’t imagine Bear techniques would do me any good.” And Jaskier wiggled his scrawny arms for good measure. It broke the edge of tension, and he caught a smile pulling at the corner of Coën’s mouth before the man turned away. Feeling rather smug, Jaskier pushed off the monument he’d been leaning against; Coën was still shaking his head when Jaskier sauntered up.

“I could teach you a few things, if you like.”

“Oh really?”

“Something like this?” Jaskier turned on a dime, his blades sweeping through the night air-- a pirouette with a double feint-- executing the move flawlessly. It was like  _ dancing _ the way it sang through his veins. And better than any audience was Coën’s singular, focused attention. And Jaskier relished it.

He repeated the movement, but this time Coen’s blade cut through the flashing arc--catching the steel blade that had come so tauntingly close to his neck.

“Clever,” Jaskier murmured. Then he tapped the flat of his silver stiletto against Coen’s unguarded side. “ _ Nearly _ clever.”

“That’s a  _ Cat _ trick.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

A low, guttural wheeze cut through their banter. It was hardly louder than a human groan, but both men turned immediately towards the sound. A little further up the dirt path, between a cluster of grave markers, a burial mound was heaving upwards. The wheeze became a sharp, haunting howl. It had caught their scent.

“Show time.”

Jaskier darted back as the first ghoul galloped towards Coën. Two others were clawing their way out of the ground, their unnaturally distended arms coated up to the elbows in rot. It was no wonder that a single swipe of their claws could poison even a Witcher’s blood. Jaskier wasn’t willing to risk his own constitution by lingering, half-elven or not. 

Skirting a line of headstones, he moved quickly to put distance and obstacles between himself and the battle. He needed to stay close enough to watch, but not so close that he risked distracting Coën from the fight (or the ghouls from their hoped-for meal). The second ghoul had reached the Witcher now. Quick, broad slices kept them both at bay, unable to advance together. One lunged ahead of the other and immediately recoiled, flames erupting in its face from a well-placed Igni.

Coën fought like a true magician: if you were to take your eyes off one hand, you were sure to suffer the other. A sweeping overhead slice, met with the full blast of Aard from beneath. Neither silver nor magic took preference over the other: Coen wielded both with terrible precision. The Griffin School favored balance -- evenness --something that Jaskier craved even as he felt compelled to poke and prod that even-keeled disposition. He was so busy admiring the fighting technique, the third ghoul was nearly on top of him before he heard it. 

Jaskier threw himself sideways. The ghoul crashed into a headstone, the weathered rock collapsing under the force of its weight. Jaskier rolled, springing back to his feet, both blades already in his hands. This was the deciding moment -- to run or fight -- and seconds to decide. The ghoul thrashed like a cat, twisting itself back onto its feet. Jaskier thrust his stiletto forward. It caught in the muscle of the ghoul’s hind leg, the silver biting deep. The beast howled and lashed out, slobbering in its rage, but Jaskier was already dancing back out of reach.

_ Fight, then _ .

He kept one blade up in defense, warding off the wild swings of the ghoul’s claws. With the silver, he drew blood. Again and again, a dozen angry cuts that drove the ghoul into a frenzy of pain and rage. The creature twisted back and out of Jaskier’s short range, daring him to follow. Jaskier dug in his heels. The ghoul rebounded with shocking speed, jaws nearly unhinged as it tried to knock him down by sheer force. His silver stiletto caught in the ghoul’s mouth (bringing his own hand in perilous proximity to its fetid, razored teeth). Jaskier twisted, slicing free teeth and a bloody howl. Steel pinned the monster’s throat and its wail gave way to nothing as Jaskier turned the silver in his grasp and stabbed downwards as it fell.

Its body spasmed once and then went limp.

When he looked up, Coën had dispatched the last of the beasts on his side of the cemetery, his blades several inches deep in gore. 

Jaskier was expecting concern, the gruff  _ are you alright _ , but when Coën caught his breath all he said was: “Not too bad.”

Jaskier’s smile was brilliant. 

“Not bad yourself.”

\-----

“Well I’ve certainly worked up an appetite,” Jaskier declared, handing Ganymede’s reins to the stablehand once more. The boy took their horses with silent, wide-eyed awe. “You?”

“Starving,” Coën agreed and held the tavern door open.

With a teasing grin, Jaskier ducked under his arm, “I don’t see why.  _ I _ did all the work.”

“Debatable.” 

Coën’s laugh went straight through him, and Jaskier pushed his way towards the bar so the Witcher couldn’t see it in his face. Even so, he was hyper aware of the other man’s presence, how close he followed behind--dodging patrons in Jaskier’s wake.

“Best settled over a meal.”

It landed so smoothly--just a touch offhand, just a little too casual: Jaskier knew an invitation when he saw one. Coën wasn’t even looking at him as they leaned against the bar together, his focus on getting the barmaid’s attention and the inch of space burning between them, both deliberate and tantalizing. A familiar move in a dance Jaskier knew by heart.

“Actually,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, “I think I’ll head upstairs.”

Coën only paused a beat--clearly weighing all the ways to interpret such a statement--before saying, with equal neutrality: “I thought you were hungry.”

“I am,  _ of course _ \--but yours is the first decent story I’ve had in weeks.” Which was true. As invigorating as their evening monster hunt had been, he was still in the business of singing for his supper. “I’m going to get started right away.”

And just before he turned to leave, he laid his hand on Coën’s arm, closing the careful distance between them. It was only for a moment, but Jaskier knew what it meant, why Coën stood stuck with surprise when he turned and walked away. 

“It’s the last room on the left. You can help with the details,” he called back.

“The details?” Coën echoed.

Jaskier’s voice carried down the stairs: “Bring my dinner with you.”

\---

He hadn’t been lying about needing to write, and, in fact, he was a full page into notes when a soft knock interrupted his furious penning. A smirk broke out on his face. It turned out Coën knew an invitation too. And when the Witcher entered, a tray of food extended ahead of him, Jaskier didn’t try to hide his pleasure. 

“I come bearing gifts.” Coën peeked around the door, showing off that lopsided smile of his when he caught sight of Jaskier.

“Enter, good sir!”

Dinner was a casual affair. A bit of roasted pheasant and brown bread which they ate together on the floor--for there was no table in the room, save a small stool that held the wash bowl. Conversation flowed easily; idle chatter about the town, which turned to the alderman’s claim of drowners, and then, of course, to the ghouls. At which point, Jaskier remembered something important and rushed back to his notes before he forgot.

Coën stayed.

Jaskier, lounging on the bed, had one knee drawn up to serve as writing desk, his quill scratching messily across the paper. His other leg dangled over the side of the bed, swinging absently and occasionally tapping Coën where he sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the bed and his sword across his lap for sharpening. He would chime in every so often to confirm or counter a detail, whetstone stilling anytime Jaskier experimented with a verse out loud. He looked as comfortable as a Witcher could look--his armor stacked neatly against the wall, boots included. It was a pleasant sight--familiar, in a way.

Jaskier himself was in high spirits. He was fresh off a successful night’s performance, had tested his new blades against some ghouls, and Coën had proven to be easy company. (Even, dare he say it,  _ fun _ .) 

“You’ve hardly touched your wine,” Coën commented after nearly an hour had passed. 

It was true: Jaskier had been so focused on getting it all down (and down  _ correctly _ , thank you), he’d forgotten about his cup entirely. He glanced over the bed’s edge to take stock of Coën’s.

“Neither have you.”

“I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Oh?”

All Jaskier got in return was a noncommittal hum, the Witcher unmoved by Jaskier’s curiosity. But there were other ways of making him talk. Jasker continued to prod him with his bare foot as the Witcher bent over his swords. Then again as he set them aside in their scabbards. It was really a point of principle now--trying to get the other man to crack. He poked him again as he stood. Not able to reach as well now, his toes did little more than scuff the side of his knee and--

Coën’s strong hand curled around Jaskier’s ankle and tugged. The bard was pulled halfway down the bed, flat on his back and papers spilling onto the floor.

And there was Coën--half-twisted across his body. Caged by Jaskier’s legs, his hand was a brand against Jaskier’s skin, the curve of his palm fitted to the delicate jut of his ankle. A few strands of Coen’s hair had escaped the strip of leather holding it back and fallen into his eyes. Jaskier itched to get his fingers in it.

“May I?” Coën whispered. And the warmth in Jaskier’s chest flared red-hot.

“You’d fucking better.”

And before the Witcher could, Jaskier kissed him. Bruising and open-mouthed, Jaskier tangled his fingers in that auburn hair and  _ tugged _ . Coën pressed him into the bed with a groan, hands pulling at the laces of Jaskier’s trousers. 

“Fuck, Coën,” Jaskier swore into the half-broken kiss. He arched against him, chasing the friction of his body. “I thought I’d finish the song before you did something.”

“You were working,” Coën’s teeth grazed Jaskier’s throat, making the bard shudder. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Sweet talker. Your hand’s already in my pants.”

Things moved rather quickly after that. Jaskier grabbed oil from his bag and pants were gracelessly discarded, hindered by too many eager hands. Every exposed inch of skin was treated to Jaskier’s mouth, Coën hissing as Jaskier licked a stripe along the jut of his hip, nimble fingers in the hem of his shirt. He pulled the offending article of clothing over Coën’s head and tossed it to the floor. And when Coën kissed him--surging forward as if even the shortest separation was agony--it was hard not to feel like the night was always going to end this way. 

Every touch of skin against skin, every moan that slipped free made him almost dizzy with anticipation, their kisses growing frantic and fumbling, until they were only panting mouth to mouth as Coën worked him open. His cock was already hard against Jaskier’s thigh, an intoxicating heat. He pressed a third finger in, and Jaskier gasped for air. He clutched Coën’s shoulders, trembling as he pushed in and out, torturously slow--and when he couldn't take it anymore, Jaskier pushed the Witcher down into the mess of blankets. 

He slid up Coën’s body, his hands running over every muscle, every scar. The press of his body followed after, both men groaning as their cocks dragged against one another’s. Then Jaskier was kneeling over him. Coën met him with that beautiful, lopsided grin of his and something in Jaskier’s chest fluttered wildly toward its light.

Coën had gotten--understandably--distracted when undressing Jaskier. The ties at the top of his shirt were all undone and it hung loose across his chest, baring one shoulder. The thin material clung to his skin, almost translucent with sweat and exertion. Coën rucked it up, his hands gripping Jaskier’s bare waist, and the sounds of the tavern were still drifting up from the floor below when Coën eased up into him. 

\---

When he could feel his body again, Jaskier pulled his shirt up and over his head and tossed it to the floor--removing, at last, the final piece of clothing between them. Then he flopped back down onto the bed--his bare-ass up and face in his pillow. He couldn’t see him, but he could hear Coën’s chuckle.

The Witcher had rolled onto his side. Because of the appalling state of the inn’s furniture, this threatened to roll Jaskier into the divot created by the Witcher’s larger frame--something he resisted out of sheer self-preservation. The Witcher was a  _ furnace _ .

Even so, the first soft touch of Coën’s hands was gentle, if not cool, against the flushed heat of his skin. From the back of his thigh, up and over the curve of his ass, and to his waist, Coën traced lazy figures--all spirals and waves--with the tips of his calloused fingers. When they began to dance up his spine, Jaskier hummed in pleasure and turned his face from the pillow and opened his eyes.

Coën was--really--unfairly handsome. All warm golds and browns--that devilish half-smile that had so ensnared Jaskier from the start--and all of it heightened by the low and flickering light now casting smooth shadows over his body as he lounged beside him, like some forest nymph come to tempt him. Coën’s bemused expression was appealing too, all the more so because he never stopped his soft, aimless caresses--even as Jaskier sunk further into the sheets, his sighs low and quiet. Jaskier gazed at Coën across the pillow with half-lidded eyes, indolent and cat-like. Up and down the fingers went. Up and down--each slow pass lulling Jaskier to sleep. 

It was... _ nice _ .

His shameless study of Coën’s features, however, had brought to his attention a minor issue. One he would sooner ignore, if it weren’t for his pesky aversion to burning to death in his sleep. When he sighed again, it savored more of petulance than pleasure. 

“The candles…”

The room was still full of the warm light, so eagerly had they fallen into bed that not one of them had been snuffed. 

“I could…” Coën gestured vaguely with his hand. Jaskier turned onto his back, face drawn in mock offense. “If you’ve still enough focus to put out a candle from across the room, I’m going to be insulted.” 

Coën tilted Jaskier’s chin with a finger, leaning down to steal a kiss. Jaskier curled a hand at the back of Coën’s neck without a second thought, holding him there as their mouths moved slowly against one another’s. Coën’s hand slid down his bare skin, drawing sighs and shivers before breaking the kiss at last, holding Jaskier’s gaze when he said, “You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Jaskier hummed with pleasure, heat sparking in his belly as the Witcher’s hands wandered--idly? Intentionally?--downward. 

He hissed as Coën’s thumb dragged across him, sensitive and still-stretched, and his brain jumped forward--the thought of Coën inside him again, bed shaking as he fucked him into it, the sound of skin against skin. He could feel Coën against his him, hard again, and he moaned, “ _ fuck _ .” Then--

“Better be sure.” 

And he hitched a leg up over Coën’s hip, grinning in satisfaction as Coën caught on, his grip on Jaskier’s thigh tightening reflexively. The Witcher’s hazel eyes burned and Jaskier felt the heat of anticipation across his skin. He lifted his hips, seeking out a friction that nearly undid the other man. Even the drag of his ass against Coën’s cock threatened to break Jaskier’s restraint; there was no awareness left to wonder at how quickly he’d gone from sated to dizzy with want. He only  _ wanted _ .

“If you insist.”

Coën had found the oil, palming himself quickly before dragging Jaskier down the bed by his waist. Jaskier lifted his other leg eagerly, shoving a pillow under his hips, only to have Coën catch him by the ankle and coax his leg up over his shoulder. Jaskier hissed obscenities under his breath as the position pulled him nearly flush against Coën. There was barely room to maneuver, but--bless the gods above for Witchers’ strength--Coën didn’t falter an inch. He curved, impossibly beautiful, at the waist--fingers bruising Jaskier’s thigh--and pressed into him.

Jaskier arched, feeling the air punched out of his lungs. Inch by agonizing inch, the pleasure clawed at Jaskier’s insides, and it was an eternity and an instant before Coën was fully seated inside him. It was impossible to kiss him without being bent nearly in half, but it didn’t stop Jaskier from wanting it. He loved the hot press of Coën’s breath against his mouth, the obscenities and the begging spilling out as Jaskier dragged pleasure from him. He licked his lips instead and focused on catching his breath. Every shift of bodies sent a shot of lightning down his spine; Coën felt it too, judging by the way his nails dug into Jaskier’s skin with each inhale.

“Move,” he entreated. 

The muscles in his thighs were already beginning to ache; he wouldn’t be able to hold this position long, however much he enjoyed the outcome. Besides, he’d already been fucked through once tonight and patience was overrated.

Coën shook the hair from his eyes, a smile breaking through the shake of his breath. He’d adjusted his grip, one hand under Jaskier’s thigh and the other at his hip. “What if I just…” and he curved impossibly again, drawing back just a touch before pushing in again. A faint slip of friction that was nowhere near enough. Jaskier was about to say as much when he did it again; rocking his hips in a broken promise and drawing a high whine from Jaskier’s throat.

“I’ll kill you,” he growled. He rolled his hips and watched in vicious satisfaction as Coën’s lashes fluttered and his jaw tightened. “Go on. Put your back into it.”

And he did.

His hips snapped forward, driving into Jaskier relentlessly. Jaskier shook and trembled, until the only thing holding him there was Coën. When he moved a hand to keep Jaskier’s leg over his shoulder, he lost the control he’d had, pulling Jaskier’s hips down to meet him every time. Their steady rhythm evaporated instantly, Jaskier arching and writhing wildly in his desperation. Every thrust hit differently, driving Jaskier mad with frustrated want--caught off guard when their movements aligned and stars burst behind his eyes one moment, only to lose it a moment later. He needed more.

“Can you--can you lift me?” They were both breathing hard and it took a second for Coën to hear him. 

“Wh--hnngh,” Coën groaned as they crashed together again. “What did you have in mind.”

Jaskier pawed at his chest without any real strength; words had failed him. Coën, however, had figured out what he wanted. Jaskier slid his leg off of Coën’s shoulder, wincing at the ache, and Coën pressed his fingers into the sore muscles, trying to offer relief, but that wasn’t the relief Jaskier was chasing. He pushed him back, and when Coën pulled out completely Jaskier thought he might pass out.

But the room stopped spinning and there was only Coen, deliciously laid out on his back. Jaskier crawled gracelessly on top of him, thighs burning with the strain, and straddled him, both of them flushed and slick with sweat. Coën gripped his waist without him needing to say anything, a softness that fluttered behind his heart. With one hand on Coën’s chest for balance and the other reaching behind, Jaskier lifted up onto his knees and, in the same easy movement, sank back down on every inch of Coën’s cock. The Witcher moaned his name, but Jaskier couldn’t wait. He shifted up again, both hands braced on Coën, and pressed down.

“Fuck--Jaskier--”

Jaskier laughed breathlessly. “I’m trying,” he panted. He swivelled his hips and lifted. His arms were shaking; sweat stung his eyes. He was on the edge of release but he couldn’t reach it, drawing a wretched keening from his mouth as he clenched around Coën and struggled to get the momentum he wanted.

Coën pulled him down, fingers tangled in his hair--and their mouths crashed together hot and needy.

“Let me,” he said, a whispered plea against Jaskier’s mouth. But it was Jaskier who begged-- “ _ Please, Coën _ .  _ Please _ .  _ I’m so close _ ”--almost sobbing with relief when Coën shifted, bracing his feet on the bed and tightening his grip.

Coën’s pace was brutal and brilliant. All Jaskier could do was hold on as Coën strength carried them both through--lifting Jaskier easily and pulling him down again and again--fucking him with relentless determination. It was furious and messy and perfect. And when Jaskier came with a sharp cry, Coën continued to fuck him through it, pace staggering as Jaskier’s entire body clenched tightly around him. 

Jaskier felt as though all the bones had been fucked right out of his body, and he almost collapsed on Coën’s chest. He bit his lip, stifling a hiss. Everything was too sensitive, too much, the continued thrust of Coën’s cock bordering on pain, but he didn’t want it to stop. 

“Keep going.”

Their shadows moved in sin across the walls, and Jaskier couldn’t look away. His entire being turned over to pleasure and Coën’s taking of it, pumping into Jaskier’s willing body with ecstasy writ across his face. Then--with one last thrust, Coën cried out too, holding Jaskier flush against him as he came. 

Jaskier thought he’d never been so full, so thoroughly fucked-through. (He’d write a song about it if he wasn’t half-dead.) For several long moments, all they did was breathe. Every inch of Jaskier’s body felt as though it had been transmuted to lead. He was sure he was crushing the Witcher, but Coën made no complaint--only ran his fingers up and down Jaskier’s thighs, over his knees. Soft. Jaskier shivered, the sweat cooling on his skin, and at last he summoned the energy to lift himself off of Coën and collapse onto the bed beside him.

“Bath,” Jaskier mumbled. “‘n the morning.”

“Morning,” Coën agreed, face turning from the pillow and towards Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier had curled on his side, one arm flung artlessly across Coën’s back. In the fading light, he idly traced the lines of his muscles, the raised lines of scars. “The candles…” 

The Witcher didn’t open eyes, only shifting a little so Jaskier could tangle their legs together beneath the sheet (which he did without any further provocation), and hummed, on the edge of sleep.

“Leave ‘em…”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Coen is here at last! I blame my love for him on "strings of fate binding us together" by winterbitch (WinterLadyy) -- a fic I adore and can't recommend enough.
> 
> 2\. I fully concede that Jaskier's fixation on the Cat School is only partially due to its techniques being best suited to him and rather more-so because it's the best armor set in the game AND the only school to take on female Witchers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Isn't this some deep Witcher secret you're divulging? Am I going to have to swear off laughter now? Oh gods, I'll have to wear black forever..."

_Winter (Kovir)_

  
  


Years later, he would blame it on the foul weather (it was brisk and pleasant), or the inn’s surprisingly good fare (surprisingly _edible_ more like)--but in truth, Jaskier lingered in the port town _because he wanted to_. For four days, Jaskier did what he pleased: he sang for his supper, joined hunts when it suited him--and did Coën too, for that pleased him most of all. There was just something unbearably charming about Coën. He enjoyed wine, but only for a glass or two, had an ear for rhyme and music, and though he didn’t laugh all that often, Jaskier could see it hiding in that crooked smile of his.

After the third night, Jaskier was bent over the fire, the sheets knotted low on his hips, when Coën--the sweat still gleaming on his skin--asked: “Why don’t you use magic?”

The logs Jaskier had been proding fell over, sending up sparks and a good amount of ash. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re half-elven--”

“Who told you,” Jaskier deadpanned.

“--you’re not _entirely_ unconnected to Chaos.”

Fire now blazing merrily away, Jaskier poked through the remains of meals past, peeking into carafes until he found one that still held wine and hooked his finger through the bottle’s loop. “Nicely put.” 

He took a deep pull of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he shrugged, “Magic didn’t really come naturally for me, so I never had much inclination to try.”

Coën’s look was deliberate, and Jaskier huffed at the challenge implied.

“I learned glamour magic because it was _useful_ ,” he countered. “And because it was my mother’s speciality.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, drawing one leg up beneath him, and passed the wine to Coën.

“She would spend hours entertaining me. With duckbills and emerald hair and freckles shaped into stars. I would make up the most fantastical stories, just to see her make them come alive. I can still see her pale fingers, plucking at invisible strings…” He trailed off.

“It sounds like a happy childhood.”

Jaskier smiled. “It was."

Coën drank from the carafe, his brow knitted in thought--an unfairly attractive expression, in Jaskier’s opinion. By the time he’d finished, he’d come to a decision--one that did not involve further wine, for he set the jug aside and held out his empty palms between them. 

“I could teach you. Here, give me your hands--”

“Isn’t this some deep Witcher secret you’re divulging? Am I going to have to swear off laughter now? Oh gods, I’ll have to wear black _forever_...” 

“We’ll see if you can manage it first,” Coën teased in his low voice. “Then worry about the initiation rites after.”

“I should warn you, I’m a terrible student.”

“Doubtful.”

“I only learn things out of spite.”

“And then sleep with your teachers?”

“Just the ones with kind eyes.”

And Coën didn’t have anything to say to that. He cleared his throat. “Watch me.”

“If you insist,” Jaskier smirked.

Coën curled his thumb and pinky finger inward and made a sharp motion through the air. Jaskier had known which sign he was going for when he had guided the position of Jaskier’s own hand; still, it was only because he was looking for it that he caught the tell-tale shimmer of _Quen_ as the shield-spell rippled across Coën’s body.

“Surely, fire would be more useful,” Jaskier offered, dutifully holding his hand up for inspection.

Coën laughed. “Defense first.”

“Typical Griffin.” Jaskier rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. Then he frowned, “Is that all?”

Coën’s head quirked. “All?” he echoed

“Well, if it was just a simple handwaving, anyone would do it, wouldn’t they? Bit anticlimactic,” Jaskier jibbed. He gestured obnoxiously between them, “Go on then--I thought you were telling me all your Witchery secrets.”

“Well, you have to open the path of magic through your body and out through your fingers.”

“Not your hand?”

Coën shook his head. “Fingers. It’s why their placement is so crucial,” he held his right hand up, waving to get Jaskier’s attention again. “Broke my hand a few summers past, couldn’t summon so much as a spark until they’d healed.”

Jaskier pressed a kiss into the palm of said hand, drawing it close between his own, “You poor thing.”

Coën sighed, but his fingers were already uncurling, his thumb catching the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “You’re impossible...” he chided.

“Thank you!” Jaskier chirped, brightly. The wine was warm in his belly, and Coën’s attempts to be stern were an unabashed turn-on, one Jaskier wasn’t the least bit ashamed of pursuing. He tilted his face to better catch Coën’s eyes and, if the Witcher’s thumb pulled at his lower lip, well then, so much the better.

Coën’s gaze fell to Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier took advantage of his momentary distraction to slip a hand beneath the sheets, seeking skin. “Listen--” Jaskier tried (barely) to be apologetic, “I told you I was an awful student.” 

“Among other things,” Coën reminded him--and _ooh, that was a dirty trick_ \--and the Witcher pulled back his hand, earning a pout from Jaskier. “Now. Where does your magic come from?”

Jaskier sighed. Coën was clearly not to be deterred, so he sat back, his hands braced on the bed behind him, and gave the Witcher his full attention; the faster he proved the incompatibility of their Chaos, the sooner he could resume his ravishment of the man. “How do you mean?”

“When you charm a crowd--

“--simply the lustrous timber of my voice, thank you very much.”

“Apologies,” Coën soothed, though Jaskier hadn’t truly been offended and they both knew it. “When you turn the pickpockets gaze away, then. When you interest the drunkard more in his _ale_ than in you…”

Jaskier shifted, though he kept his face a mask of neutral interest. He’d done those things; those things and more. Parlour tricks to keep himself safe (safe and alive and _hidden_ ), and it had been decades since anyone had caught him out, had recognized _it_ for magic. The small, wild thing that lived in his chest--all wings and teeth and birdsong. Where he pulled from to maintain the glamour over his half-eleven features: dulling the luminous glow of his skin, rounding the subtle point of his ears. An effortless affectation that he maintained with every breath, through every fading chord and dream.

Jaskier lifted a hand, fingers brushing vaguely over the space below his heart--and the wild magic trilled against his skin, unfelt by Coën, but whose keen eyes hadn’t missed the gesture. When Coën spoke, his voice was almost tender. “It comes from there.”

“What--” Jaskier’s whisper stalled and he had to unstick his voice from the tightness in his throat. “What do I think about?”

“Whatever makes you feel safe,” Coën said. “Make that your shield.”

Easier said than done, in Jaskier’s opinion, but he owed it to Coën to try. He matched his hand to Coën’s shape again--thumb and little finger bent inwards--and took a steadying breath. There was much that brought him comfort, but _safe_ ? The world-- _his_ world--wasn’t made for safe. He held the word just beneath his tongue, like a sweet to worry over time, and reached cautiously for his magic.

 _The feeling of lute strings beneath his fingers. Flashing steel. A low-banked fire. The smell of cedar; of clear air. A field of dandelions stretching into the pale blue horizon, and a horse whinnying in the distance_ \--Jaskier flicked his wrist. The spell kindled like a match struck, and the silver griffin’s head hanging from Coën’s neck shivered in the wake of Jaskier’s magic.

“Impressed?”--and, just for effect, he made the blue of his eyes glow brighter. 

He dropped the shield a moment later, the faintest sparks of amber light evaporating from his skin. Coën took his raised hand in answer, sliding their fingers together as easy as anything, and kissed him. _Safe_ melted between their mouths, sweet dissolving into _heat_ and longing. “Very,” Coën whispered against Jaskier’s mouth, so close that sound and touch bled into taste and Jaskier could have spent all night drinking it down.

And when the kiss ended, as it inevitably had to, he fell back onto the bed. Stretching his arms over his head, he reached until he felt the satisfying pop in his shoulders. There was a rustle of sheets as Coën leaned in, and Jaskier grabbed his hand before it could reach its mark-- intending some mischief, he was sure. Jaskier tugged, hoping to lure Coën down, to feel the comforting press of his weight against his chest, but the Witcher held firm.

“Come hunting with me.”

Jaskier considered this. Trek out in the middle of the night to be horribly cold, exhausted, and inevitably covered in something disgusting--or curl up in front of the fire he’d so freshly stoked? He brushed his lips across the pulse of Coën’s wrist.

“Alright.”

\---

Quen wasn’t the only Sign Coën tried to teach Jaskier, but it was the only one that stuck: the bard was hopeless at the rest. Though, truth be told, Jaskier’s focus wasn’t at its best; he kept thinking of better ways to use their time. And bed. And _walls_...

Winter, however, wouldn’t wait for them to finish satisfying this particular itch. Each day they put off their respective journeys (and moved together in the oldest way), the world outside their casually-crafted bubble insisted on making itself known--in the draft that slipped through the shutters, in the thinning of patrons each night, their cheeks pink and hollowed with cold. And Jaskier ignored it for as long as he could.

But on the fourth night, Jaskier was leaning over the bar, ordering dinner to be sent up, when an offhand comment by a nameless traveler popped that bubble as surely as any needle. News of heavy snowfall coming up from the south. An abrupt and painful reminder of the miles left to travel to reach Ensenada, miles that could prove deadly if Jaskier was sharing the road with a blizzard. He almost wished he hadn’t heard--but the thought, however unwanted, followed him back to the room like a Wraith.

Coën was soaking in a bath (necessitated by their afternoon exertions) when Jaskier, rinsing the last of the soap from Coën’s hair, casually announced he’d be moving on in the morning. The half-silence that followed was very nearly unbearable, their small room overtaken by the noise of the tavern rising up through the floorboards, the lapping of water against the wooden slats of the tub. When Coën turned, it was both a relief and more than he could stand.

The Witcher danced his wet fingers around the curve of his waist and pulled him closer. Jaskier tucked the wet strands of Coën’s hair behind his ear; a nervous gesture. “Once the winter sets in…”

“Jaskier. You don’t have to explain.”

“We artists have delicate constitutions, you know.”

Coën snorted, his hand sliding up the back of Jaskier’s thigh. He certainly had more than a few things to say on the matter of Jaskier’s constitution, but seemed to satisfy himself with the hitch of breath caused by his wandering hands.

“I have no intention of wintering in some backwater village, no matter how... _athletic_ it’s charms,” Jaskier added, with a pointed look at how far Coën’s hands had gotten. “Besides, neither one of us is earning our coin by staying here.”

And that wasn’t exactly true, but Coën didn’t call him on it. He seemed to know what Jaskier was saying--and for that, the bard was endlessly grateful, a wave of affection swelling in his chest.

Coën sighed, “I suppose the Path has waited long enough.” 

“No path but the road”--almost like Coën’s had been a tether, the words slipped out under Jaskier’s breath.

“What’s that?” asked Coën, curious and still leaning over the edge of the bath. Water was gathering in a puddle around Jaskier’s feet

Jaskier shook his head. “Nothing. Budge up.”

He climbed into the bath and the Witcher obliged his request, sitting back against the wall of the bath and making space for Jaskier to settle between his legs. Jaskier reclined until his back was flush against Coën’s chest, elbowing the other man until he lifted his arms and let Jaskier rest his own along the edges of the tub. Coën’s arms settled back down over his, heavy and warm; Jaskier let out a contented sigh.

“A quick soak and then I’m going to fuck you sideways,” he announced, and felt more than he heard, Coën’s low chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“I appreciate the itinerary.”

The bath wasn’t built to hold two grown men comfortably--something they’d determined that first morning together--but they could fit like this, Jaskier slouched down just far enough to tuck his head beneath Coën’s chin. He could feel Coën against his lower back, half-hard, and _oh, that was a delicious thought_ ...but the other man made no move to pursue their earlier flirtations, and eventually his ardor subsided. Coën was doing that thing he did, fingers dancing up and down Jaskier’s arms, and everything was soft and quiet. It felt _good_.

He closed his eyes.

The water was still hot--Coën’s doing, no doubt--and he felt the tension easing from his muscles, the anxious knot at the base of his skull unraveling with the steady rhythm of Coën’s breath calling his to match.  
  
  
The candles were still lit. 

  
(He wasn’t worried).  
  
  
“Jas?”  
  


He hummed, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort of opening his eyes. 

“Jas, you’re falling asleep…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jaskier muttered, turning his cheek against Coën’s chest. It was the last thing he remembered.

  
  


\---

  
  


Jaskier dressed lazily the next morning. He’d slept past dawn, for which he blamed Coën’s coma-inducing body heat, but the day was still young. Besides, he had a feeling Ganymede would be happy to stretch his legs. Covering the miles shouldn’t prove too troublesome, provided he supplied proper incentive. He stuffed an apple into his bag for just that purpose, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.

Coën tossed him his shirt -- rumpled, but the cleanest he currently owned for having been lost for two days beneath the bed. “Thank you.” He tugged it over his head.

“What direction you headed?”

“Oh, darling.” Jaskier stamped his heel firmly into his boot and stood. “My Witcher-following days are behind me.”

There was that crooked smile again. “And what if it were I following _you_?”

Jaskier still felt young in so many places--and his heart, the bastard, was one of them. Even now it thrummed with reckless wanting. _Damn these Witchers_ , Jaskier thought. He curled his fingers through Coën’s hair, just behind his ears, and then bent down to brush his lips across the Witcher’s cheek.

“Not for all the Est Est in Novigrad.”

He felt Coën’s smile under his lips, the press of his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist. He didn’t try to hold him there. And Jaskier was grateful, even as he longed to slide beneath sheets, to force the Path to bend around two instead of one.

“I’m glad we met,” he said--the truth of it louder than his too-soft heart could bear to say. 

“So am I.” 

Coën squeezed Jaskier’s wrist--once--then let go, fingers sliding across his palm. “Be safe on the road.”

Jaskier was in danger of making a fool of himself if he stayed any longer, but the risk was worth it to steal a parting kiss. 

“So long, Witcher.” 

“Jaskier,” Coën countered. No pretense or judgment. Only easy affection Jaskier couldn’t help but return, his mouth curling into a smile.

“Coën,” he amended, lingering for a moment longer to commit the sight of Coën, sleep rumpled and bare chested, to memory. 

Then he was gone.

\-----

_Winter (Ensenada Palace)_

  
  


Winters in the King of Kovir’s court were warm and well-paid. 

Because Kovir controlled 80% of the world’s gold production, they put even the gaudy opulence of Toussaint to shame. If it could be gold, it was--from the frames of paintings to the stitching in the guards’ gambeson. If it made no architectural sense, it existed. The ceilings of the palace rose ridiculously high, and every room was bordered by colonnades. This created a faux hall of sorts around the perimeter so the ladies of the court might take a turn about the room with the illusion of privacy, while still allowing the performance of it to be viewed by the rest of the room. (Ensenada _adored_ its performances.)

Mummers and dancers played every night, encouraging by mime and puppetry the farcical drama so romanticized by the court. Friends brought their spats to the dining table; those out of favor with one another aired their grievances, loudly, to a cast of fickle ears, so eager to tell the other party of the insults listed they listened with one foot out the door. Love letters were opened in public only so that the recipient might be able to gasp and sigh and then insist the contents were private to all assembled.

Jaskier played his part too. He’d crafted two verses on the road--a rousing traveling song, which he perfected after arriving and performed to the adoring court--and if the traveler bore a striking resemblance to Coën, well it was said art imitates life. The courtiers begged for details, of course, to know more than what the song entailed, but Jaskier also knew how to sigh one minute and swear secrecy the next.

And so it went.

He kept graveyard hours, playing the court most nights, as it pleased him, and well into the early hours of the morning: softly serenading the lovers, their heads bowed close together; plucking up the spirits of the weary kitchen workers dragging themselves from their quarters before the sun to start the baking of bread.

And, just as in Oxenfurt, he wandered. The sleeplessness that had plagued him in early summer came and went; if there was a common cause or a trigger, it refused to show itself. If he was lucky, and it struck on a clear night, he would climb the Eastern tower. It didn’t open fully into the sky (only those too poor to afford turrets had open-sky towers, _naturally_ ), but its windows were plentiful. A person (or an insomniatic bard) needed only to sit flush against the wall beneath it and he could see half the night sky stretched out before him.

The stars brought him neither sleep nor answers, but they were a comfort--story-laden and constant. (And _rare_ , the deeper winter settled over the palace.) 

When it snowed, which was more often than not, or when the clouds hung like a grey sheet over the stars, he wrote letters to Shani and abused his access to the royal library. He wrote dozens of poems (more of them private then destined for performance) and an ode to the Grand Canal. He even spent one memorable evening with the Queen Mother, dredging up some of the older elven ballads he’d learned in his infancy at the college. The old speech falling trippingly off his tongue, he recited poetry to her in the corner of the banquet hall, out of reach of the drafts and the gossip.

Occasionally, he thought of Coën and wondered where the Witcher’s Path had taken him. But those thoughts had the tendency to lead to others, more dangerous, so he relegated them to his writing and forced his mind toward other fancies: the next wave of gossip he could spoil with a well-placed whisper, or his hope for a new face to break the growing tedium...

\-----

Nearly a month after the first snow, Triss arrived.

They nearly collided -- pure chance finding Jaskier on his way to the library at the exact time she entered the great hall in a flurry of snow and activity.

“Jaskier!” she cried, the flakes shaking loose from her chestnut curls. 

He took her outstretched hands in his and squeezed, smiling warmly. “Hullo, Merigold.” 

They busked kisses on each other’s cheeks, the sharp, clean smell of the cold still clinging to Triss’ skin. It wasn’t the first time their paths had crossed by fortuitous happenstance, and it certainly would not be the last; they ran in too many of the same circles, though each held the ears of the nobility in different fashions. She was surely here on such business--for the Brotherhood or Aretuza--judging by the anxious looks of the guardsmen who’d ushered her in. Their reunion would have to wait. 

“I won’t keep you from your business,” Jaskier assured her. He glanced over his shoulder as the King’s majordomo came huffing down the staircase. Right, as usual. “--but later?”

Her escorts were quick to hustle Triss off--officious in their stiff-collared tunics and ornamental armor--but not before she answered, “count on it,” sealing the promise with one last, quick kiss across his cheek.

Triss was as bright as a summer day--cloudless and blue; there wasn’t an ounce of true deception in her. She’d lie to you one moment then turn around and apologize the next--and you’d forgive her without a second thought. He’d once thought it might be a spell, a trick all sorceresses used to coerce trust, but then he’d met Yennefer... 

No, it was just who Triss was: eager to help, sensitive to the core, and a loyal friend.

Jaskier didn’t know how long her audience with the King would take, but he knew Triss. He diverted to the kitchens by way of the servants corridors. By now he’d become such a familiar presence that anyone he met along the way smiled and let him slip past. Jaskier made it a point, wherever he wintered, to meet everyone in the castle; learn their names, share a story-- they were going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, after all. And what he’d learned over the years was that a prince could grant you anything, but the servants could get you twice as much in half the time.

The kitchen was pleasantly stuffy with the warmth and smells of cooking food. It was one of his favorite places in the palace, particularly in the early morning when it was the only room awake in the sleeping palace. He sidled up to the day cook.

“What trouble are you up to now, Jaskier,” she demanded before he could utter so much as a hello. 

The girl was young, younger than he was, but she had a bullish presence that belied her age and reminded Jaskier of his nana. Her straw-colored hair was plaited on either side and held back by a plain kerchief; he might have called her pretty, if he didn’t think she’d have his hide for it. Even now she was glaring at him over her mixing bowl. He raised both hands in placation.

“No trouble, Anna darling!--only a favor.”

If anything, this only deepened her suspicion. “A favor?”

“I was wondering if you might set aside some food for a newly arrived guest?” He swiped a finger through the bowl she’d been so emphatically whisking and stuck it in his mouth, humming. “Currently in conference with your dear Lord--heavens help her--but, if I know Triss, she’ll be ready to eat a horse by the time they’re finished.” 

“Lady Merigold is here?”

Delight filled Jaskier’s face, and he grinned at the sudden change in tone. “You know Triss?”

“Only as much as any humble cook can know a great sorceress,” Anna hedged, flushing all the way to the roots.

So it was like that, was it? Who could blame her, Merigold being the way she was--all charming and _keen._ He leaned forward, feigning nonchalance. “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

The young girl’s face reddened even further, but it wasn’t the only thing: she cracked a spoon across Jaskier’s knuckles so hard he yelped. “What was that for?!”

“You watch your mouth, bard,” she threatened, brandishing her spoon. “She’s been very kind to us. Always compliments the cooks, not just the food.”

“And thereby earning herself a fierce defender,” Jaskier surmised sulkily. He cradled his hand to his chest--well out of reach--adding, “She and I are old friends, you know.”

Anna _hmphed_. She must have decided to grant his favor regardless, because after a moment’s grumbling and thought, Anna relented. “She’s probably staying in the green room again; I’ll send the food up there.”

Jaskier could have kissed her.

“You’re a peach, Anna--and I’ll make sure _Lady Merigold_ knows it,” he vowed, darting out of the kitchen just in time to avoid another smack of the girl’s formidable spoon.

\---

Jaskier was waiting for Triss when she entered her chambers. He was a bit into his cups, but then again the wine was the first thing Triss reached for. She shot him a grateful look, and Jaskier took up her dining entertainment--humming quietly the old, familiar songs and relaxing in his chair.

A simple inquiry had her staying in the “green room,” as predicted, so that was where Jaskier had gone. The palace guards had been only too happy to let him in for a wink and a cheeky joke; after all, what harm could a mere bard do against a sorceress? As their naiveté benefitted him in the moment, he didn’t bother correcting them. He could do a _little_ harm, thank you very much. Before Triss turned him into a newt...or worse--an onyx figure.

Fortunately, Triss found him to be marvelous company (and they’d both sworn to never bring up the incident in Zerrikania again).

Since information traveled as fast as secrets here, a trio of servants had arrived with food not a quarter of an hour before Triss herself. All of it was still steaming, still cool and fresh--whichever was called for--when the sorceress collapsed gratefully into a cushioned chair and began heaping her plate. Jaskier continued to hum, a simple accompaniment to their repast. 

The fire had been banked in the hearth, though the castle itself was pleasant enough today--no doubt they feared her still cold from her lengthy travels. But Jaskier knew firsthand how little sorceresses (and Witchers, for that matter) cared for the weather, for the cold or heat. Why, it was the most base display of magic to manipulate their own body chemistry, to raise their own temperature and inure themselves against the elements.

Besides, she’d probably teleported straight onto Ensenada’s front porch.

He sat back in his chair and crossed an ankle over one knee, content with the mug of spiced rum currently warming his palms as Triss helped herself to the vast spread of food. Anna certainly hadn’t skimped on the fare. There was enough to feed an entire garrison, which, at the very least, would tide Triss over until dinner. When he thought she’d curbed the edge of her hunger, Jaskier asked, “Are you staying long?” 

“For the Winter--unless something drastic changes.” Triss answered, spreading a heavy portion of honey across her piece of bread. “And you?”

He raised his glass. “Not even the drastic shall move me from my post before Spring.”

“Comfortable?”

“Not all of us can portal here and there,” he reminded her. Triss nudged a plate of spiced hazelnuts towards his elbow. With a roll of his eyes, Jaskier tugged the dish closer and began picking through it.

“Besides--it was your recommendation that brought me to this delightful court in the first place.”

She sighed wistfully, resting both elbows on the table and peeling an orange. Her nails split the rind easily and the smell of bright citrus filled the space, making Jaskier’s mouth water. “You should see it in the summer.”

“And perhaps I shall some day.” 

As Triss nibbled on her orange, her expression turned thoughtful. Jaskier doubted it was in regards to the rarity of oranges in winter. “I wouldn’t make travel plans just yet.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, “And why’s that?”

In lieu of answering, she passed him a segment of her orange--an obvious stall. Jaskier popped the offering into his mouth without hesitation, savoring the tart sweetness while he waited for Triss.

“War is brewing.” 

Jaskier hummed noncommittally. He had been hearing the same whisper up and down the Koviri coast and all the way back to the Continent. So far, he’d yet to see _anything_ come of it--a good-deal of pearlclutching for a little troop movement. The kingdoms had been settled in their reigns for decades and Nilfgaard had been a pitifully underachieving nation for even longer.

“Nilfgaard is _moving_ ,” he felt compelled to specify. Now it was Triss’ turn to roll her eyes

“Geralt too, though I see you’re not with him,” she quipped. She was clearly baiting him, the dare as plain as the freckles on her face. But it was rather unsporting, in Jaskier’s opinion, to go straight for it like that--just because he wasn’t convinced by the warmongering of a bunch of idling mages.

“Nor are you,” he retorted. You know, _like_ _a friend_.

Triss laughed. Amusement smoothing the lines of fatigue at the edges of her eyes and when she sat back in her chair, her shoulders carried a little less weight. Flicking away the creases in the turquoise satin, she resettled her dress over her knees.

“I won’t drag the story out of you--”

“Because you’re a proper lady.”

“ _But--_ ” 

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier interrupted--half-promise and half-plea. “When I’m not drunk and can be reasonably indifferent.” 

“He’s done something bone-headed, hasn’t he?”

Jaskier tapped his nose, and Triss sighed through her smile. 

“Men.”

“ _Men,_ ” Jaskier agreed.

And they toasted one another’s glasses, their laughter ringing out in the warm afternoon air.

\---

The next day, as promised, Triss found him--still abed as the midday bells were ringing--and promptly dragged him out of bed.

It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, inspiring Triss to take their postponed conversation outside. The sun’s appearance had little bearing on the temperature, however, and Jaskier refused to leave his chambers until he was bundled in as many furs as he could muster. For her part, Triss wore a sweeping red coat, lined with fox and seemed otherwise unbothered by the cold. ( _Damn sorceresses._ ) Arm-in-arm, they stepped out into the gardens waving off the offer of an escort from a relieved pair of guards.

Here, Triss’ promise of summer glory was the most tangible. Three-quarters of the palace grounds were devoted to extensive gardens, an effort spearheaded by the Queen Mother in the early tenure of her reign. A stately orchard took up the Northern side, stretching as far as the eye could see. Beyond it, light glinted off the thick panes of a greenhouse--a beacon in the otherwise snow-covered gardens. To the West and South stretched lawn after lawn, some filled with circular rows of barren earth that would surely be a sight in the full bloom of Spring, and some punctuated by grand fountains and elegantly carved statues. Benches lined the paths or were tucked in the natural bowers made by the bushes (currently flowerless) where no doubt many lovers had stolen away to.

Even flowerless, it was clear the grounds were regularly tended. There was an understated beauty in the starkness of the winter grounds, particularly in contrast to the constant excess on display in the palace itself.

“So you’ve split, then?”

“ _Oof_ .” Jaskier feared that now he was too _sober_ for this particular conversation. But he and Triss had been friends for ages, _and_ she knew Geralt. If there was anyone better equipped to hear this tale from sordid end to sordid end, he hadn’t met them. And they certainly didn’t have Triss’ tenacity.

So--in the interest of time, he simply started talking. Triss listened intently, without interruption, though he was sure he was rambling. A decade was an awful lot of time to cover. He summarized what he could--and he left the indignity of their capture in Posada _right out_ \--in order to get to Recent Events.

The turn came in his telling of what had transpired on the mountain and when he recounted the offenses Geralt had so conveniently laid at his feet. The djinn, which made her face sour, as any story centering on Yennefer did; and the Child Surprise, at which point she stopped dead in her tracks, jerking Jaskier to a halt as well. She’d heard the story, of course, but Geralt had apparently left out the part where he’d witnessed the law’s catastrophic ramifications only moments beforehand.

“And then he--”

“Yes.”

“After he’d _just_ \--”

“Not a minute before.”

Indignant, Triss floundered for something to say. At last, a simple “ _Well!_ ” was all she could muster. Jaskier patted the back of her hand, still tucked in the crook of his elbow. He knew from experience there was nothing else _to_ say, save to note the date and time that he’d witnessed _true_ , unquestionable stupidity. For posterity, of course.

“We happen to fall in love with idiots.” The casualness of her statement caught Jaskier by surprise. A bald admission, but one he couldn’t exactly deny. So he simply followed, swept along in her wake.

The garden path bridged over a small waterway, now thick with ice, and brought them to a smaller lawn, hemmed in by rose bushes and a hedgerow at the far end. An open-sided gazebo dominated the center of the square, its smooth columns marbled in grey and hung with miniature golden lanterns. With a soft cry of delight, Triss skipped up the stairs, skirts gathered in hand. Jaskier strolled after, hands tucked into his pockets.

Against the stark white of the grounds, Triss was a beacon of warmth and liveliness. She turned this way and that, the hem of her cloak sweeping clear the thin dusting of snow, circling to whatever song was playing in her head. Jaskier was content to watch, climbing the gazebo steps and leaning against the nearest column. 

Sucking in a deep, crisp breath, she opened her eyes and found him watching. “What?”

“Is that why you and I never had a go of it?” Hands still in his pocket, he indicated her with a lift of his chin, not bothering to hide his growing smirk. “The love bit I mean.”

“Oh yes,” Triss breathed. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “We like each other far too much.”

She grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled him into the center of the gazebo. Jaskier went, already guessing her intent. “I thought it was respect,” he countered, positioning himself for the beginning of a dance; his reward was Triss’ endearing grin.

“That too,” she conceded airily and stepped into the open circle of his arms. 

No sooner had her hand touched his shoulder than Jaskier was whisking them both away, sliding easily into a waltz. He swung them in wide, graceful arcs--red velvet and furs fanning outwards with each loop. He lifted her effortlessly, both hands at her waist and her curls catching in the breeze; a laugh, another lift. And Triss gave words to the melody they’d been soundlessly following:

 _A flickering candle, the fire went out  
_ _A cold wind blew perceptibly  
_ _And the days pass  
_ _And time passes  
_ _In silence and imperceptibly_

It was one of his--a ballad from the earliest days of his travels with Geralt. Simple, but popular for its ease (and its earnestness). He picked up where she’d left off, matching their pace to its rhythm.

 _You’re with me endlessly and endlessly  
_ _Something joins us, but not perfectly  
_ _For the days pass  
_ _For time passes  
_ _In silence and imperceptibly_

 _The memory of travelled paths and roads  
_ _Remain in us irrevocably  
_ _Although the days pass  
_ _Although time passes  
_ _In silence and imperceptibly_

The dance slowed. Triss spun under their raised arms--out and back in--the brown tones of her skin flushed from the dance. As they both caught their breath, they dropped all pretense of form and fell into a lazy half step. It amounted to little more than swaying, but Triss didn’t seem to mind. 

“ _So, my love_ ,” he sang. His voice dropped low, nd when it faltered, Triss picked up the note, her voice lifting high and sweet. 

“ _One more time, let’s repeat the chorus triumphantly…_ ”

At her nudge, Jaskier unstuck his tongue.“ _So do the days pass, so does time pass”_ they sang together. “ _\--in silence, and imperceptibly...”_

In the small circle of their dance, Triss curled her arm under his, the flat of her palm pressed to his shoulder blade and laid her cheek against his chest. Jaskier brushed a curl behind her ear, frustrated at his stumble. Soren’s censure in the back of his mind: _to be known is to be vulnerable._

Triss’ fingers curled softly at his back. “You know he didn’t mean it, Jaskier.”

“Do I?”

His voice had a sharp edge, cutting through the crisp air. But Triss wasn’t fazed. She didn’t even look up, nudging him onward through the steps until, eventually, he sighed and let his hackles down. 

“I _do_ ,” he grumbled. “Still, now that I’ve done my moping, I think I’d quite like to sock him in the jaw if I saw him right now. Best to let it settle.”

He felt her smile curl against his chest. “Actually, I think a few hard hits to the skull might do him some good.”

And Jaskier laughed. He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, grateful beyond measure, then stepped back.

“Let’s keep walking, eh?” 

She nodded. “Let’s.” 

At Triss’ lead, they entered the royal hedgemaze, which opened at the far end of the square--none of its luster lost for being without its summer roses. Instead, a glittering sheen of hoarfrost limned the densely-packed foliage; underfoot, a carpet of untrodden snow belied no clues about which turns to take. Perhaps concerned (or, rightly, _knowing_ ) she’d prodded him enough, Triss said little as they strolled through the maze--save to indicate their next turn or to point out a lark winging overhead. He knew it was a short-lived respite. Either he got on with it, or Triss would resume her verbal reconnaissance, striking blindly at the most likely targets until she hit true. 

If he was being honest, here was one particular question that, since he had her here, only Triss herself could answer--beyond the mountain, beyond Geralt. He cleared his throat, and she turned to him expectantly.

“You might be my oldest--” (she pinched his arm) “-- _longest_ -held friend…”

“And?”

He frowned, trying to shape his mouth to the best words for it, before he finally blurted out, “Have I changed?”

Triss laughed, clear and bright. “You’ve never _stopped_ , Jaskier.” 

_You’ve had one foot out the door since you got here_.

Sensing this was not the answer he’d been hoping for, Triss linked their arms together once more, reminding him, “When we met you weren’t even a bard yet!”

“ _Gods above,_ ” Jaskier groaned. “Has it really been that long?”

“Not as long as you might like to make it,” she chided, “but yes. I might be the only one to know bards don’t just sprout out of the ground, instrument in hand.”

“ _That_ would be something to see. It’s how sorceresses are born, isn’t it?"

“Mm,” Triss agreed. “Any time a king has a truly impure thought--poof! Chaos vomits us right out.”

“Well, I bless the day it spit you up.” 

Triss made a face--at which Jaskier took offense and prodded her in the side. “I’m being sincere!”

“I know,” she hissed, dodging another prod. She slapped his hand. “I _know,_ you ninny. But don’t try and distract me. You were about to go all melancholic and philosophize…”

He muttered a few unkind words under his breath and got an elbow in the ribs for it. Triss started down the right-most path, but the novelty of wandering aimlessly had worn off, and with a gentle tug Jaskier guided her to the left instead. 

“Not _melancholic_ …” he insisted; aware, even as he said it, how horridly petulant he sounded. “I’m just--”

“Just what?”

He threw up his hands, “ _just embarrassed, alright?_ ”

“Oh, Jaskier…”

“I completely lost myself Triss--thank the gods you didn’t see it,” he said with emphatic relief and squeezed the hand she’d placed in his arm as a comfort. “I...I was-- _moon-eyed_. Ridiculous.”

“You were happy,” she countered.

“Well, of course, I was,” Jaskier laughed. “He was built like a tree.”

Triss hummed in agreement, clearly thinking back on a few memories of her own.

“It was nice, and I was making music.” He looked up at the sky, as stark and grey as stone, and willed his beating heart to match. “Even if he didn’t--didn’t feel the same, I didn’t regret my time with him.” 

Even in all his frustration and, for a brief time, his anger, Jaskier had never once questioned whether he’d been happy with Geralt. He turned his smile, gone a little wistful at the edges, to Triss.

“We were friends, weren’t we? At the very least?” 

(He held her hand tightly. Triss squeezed back.)

“You _were_ , Jaskier, don’t doubt that.” She sounded so certain it was easy for him to believe she was right. “Witchers _don’t_ take on companions and you traveled with him for years. He might not have said it outright, but he was telling you in his own way.”

“And I hope he stubbed every toe on his way down that mountain,” Jaskier declared indignantly, but his chest felt lighter--the joke a little easier to deliver than it had been a moment before. He sighed with a dramatic heave, and watched his breath turn to fog. “But it’s not fair to put it all on him. Or on that one moment.”

Triss let out a long breath of her own, the plume taking shape as Jaskier’s had and drifting away. She watched it disappear with a thoughtful expression. “It was a long time coming.” Not a question. 

They hadn’t seen each other in some time, but apparently it was obvious enough that she’d been able to piece it together by his retelling. Jaskier didn’t know if he should be reassured by that, or irritated that he hadn’t realized it sooner himself. For his own sake, he settled on the former.

“Bound to happen. We were stuck, and I could _see_ it---this strange, awful divide spreading between us--- after the djinn, I think, but…” He shook his head. “Geralt wouldn’t talk about it and I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Couldn’t make myself leave either.”

“Maybe you needed that fight,” Triss offered, holding up a hand when Jaskier’s immediate response was an affronted tsk. “No, listen -- you needed an absolute break. Something that forced you to walk away. Give you both some space.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, mulling it over as they walked. How many times had they parted, had Jaskier left (or been left), time and distance stretching their hurt, only to snap back together months later and ignore the sting? How many times had he _waited_ …?

“I remember asking Geralt, when we met, if all life was to him was monsters and money.”

“To be fair, he’d probably put money first,” Jaskier mused, still half in his own thoughts.

“He was lying then too.”

Jaskier looked at her in surprise. “Well,” he managed, afraid she’d say more than he was ready to deal with just then (and afraid she _wouldn’t_ ), when something like the truth came out: “I think I was lying too.”

“I will say...” Triss ventured primly. “When Geralt mentioned he was traveling with a bard--amidst the monosyllabic grunting--”

“Naturally.”

“I hardly recognized you.”

Jaskier winced.

“I missed fighting,” he admitted; even to his own ears he sounded a bit sheepish. “And fucking--Is that terrible to say?”

“Maybe in mixed company,” she teased. “But no, it’s not terrible.”

Her expression turned sly. “Am I right in guessing you’ve since... _filled those gaps_?”

“Bloody hell, Triss--really? _Gaps?!_ ”

“You have!” Triss latched onto his arm, both scandalized and giddy. “If you could see your face--”

“--it would be horrified,” Jaskier announced loudly. He tried to pull his arm free, but Triss would not be deterred. “Just aghast at your brazenness--Triss Merigold, think of your delicate sensibility!”

“Tell me.”

“Ugh,” he covered his face with both hands, “you’re going to be impossible about it.”

“Oh, Jaskier-- _if it’s the Koviri prince..._ ”

Jaskier winced. “It’s worse than that,” he mumbled from the muffled safety of his hands. And then he made the one mistake one ought never to make when trying to keep a secret from nosy sorceresses: he met her gaze.

He realized his error a heartbeat before Triss’ bright eyes widened comically in shock.

“ _A WITCHER?!_ ” She shouted, both of them nearly toppling over with the force at which Jaskier clapped a hand over her mouth

“You snoop!” he hissed.

“I didn’t even see the good bits,” she shot back, wiggling out of his grasp with a slap of her hand. “ _Were_ there good bits?”

“Triss…” he warned.

“How many?”

“ _Triss!_ ”

She threw up her hands. “You really won’t tell me?”

He wagged his finger at her, “Not after that dirty trick.”

“Can I at least get a name?” she wheedled, ignoring his frown. “What’s a name between friends?”

 _Plenty_ , Jaskier thought. But an end to his current predicament weighed more heavily than any future consequences. With as aggrieved a tone as he could manage, he told her. “Coën.”

He could see her fighting to keep a serious expression, biting the inside of her cheek to stop from smiling. “Coën,” she echoed, solemnly. And then--

“Is he... _fit?_ ”

“Well that’s enough of that!” Jaskier declared loudly. (Over her laughing apologies, he pointedly changed the subject; “What have _you_ been doing, Triss?”) 

After her fit of laughter subsided (and it took several minutes, during which he stubbornly refused to even so much as look at her-- _the harlot_ ), Triss took pity on him and backed off. She told him about the work she’d been doing for the Chapter--the places she’d been. And he regaled her with the kikimora fight, exaggerating wildly, of course. The way it had actually happened was hardly worthy of a song. He’d been working on a few other new pieces as well, though, the taste in Kovir tended towards flowery ballads. Or recitations of Elven classics, namely by request of the Queen Mother, who was an absolute gem of a woman and something of a self-taught expert on the subject. (He’d have to introduce them to good old fashioned drinking songs or it would be a long winter indeed.)

All in all, there was enough to keep him busy for the season (and no one was in danger of growing bored with him), and what came next, well, he’d decide when the snows melted. At that, Triss’ lips twitched as if she were debating saying something she knew would get her in trouble, but she ultimately refrained.

“Well you’ve certainly ingratiated yourself with the Koviri,” she said instead, “and you’re always welcome in Temeria.”

“Thank you.”

She gave him another pinch. “Don’t make me worry for you, Jaskier, if there’s a war--

“ _If_.”

She fixed him with a look. “Nilfgaard is marching.”

“Not this again, Triss,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let them march.”

“Towards _Cintra_.”

“And Winter comes to Cintra same as in the North. The snows will halt them in their tracks and Queen Calanthe will meet them with an army come Spring.”

Triss bit her lip. “You sound so certain.”

“You haven’t met the Lioness of Cintra, have you?” he asked wryly.

“No,” she admitted.

“If you had, you’d be certain too.” He guided them confidently to the right, the parameters of the maze long since imprinted in his memory after his many late-night walkabouts. 

“Nilfgaard won’t make it past the Yaruga,” Jaskier declared, just as the frosted hedges fell away and they emerged on the far end of the maze. Their reward: a sweeping veranda overlooking the city and the sea beyond it. Two empty fountains bookended the path, which was made up of small stones, white even beneath the snow. One depicted a unicorn, rearing back on its hindlegs; the other, a massive eagle seemingly bursting from the pool into flight--the sigils of Kovir and Poviss. Approaching the edge of the open space, gravel and frozen grass crunched underfoot, and a thick stone rail held them safe from the cliffside--more marble, this time veined in gold. They leaned on it together, looking out to where the horizon stretched over the cresting waves and bent toward the South. Jaskier breathed deep.

  
“Trust me, Triss: _no war is coming_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Oh Jaskier. (“There is no war in Ba Sing Se…”)
> 
> My apologies for the delay, among the stress of teaching middle school via the internet, I had difficulty separating Jaskier from Coën. They were meant to have a quick farewell before Jas continued on, and, well, you saw how that went. Now that summer is underway, I hope to be a bit speedier on the delivery (and outlines have been made for 9 chapters). The current endgame is still Geraskier, but if Coën keeps this up…
> 
> “As Time Passes” -- an actual song sung by Dandelion in the novels AT Geralt’s request


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_Somewhere North of Brugge_

_Spring_

Jaskier woke to the sound of shouting. 

The clear-bright song of steel against steel carried across the river, and the Cat stilettos slid into Jaskier’s hands in echo.

His campfire had long since cooled to ash, little more than cinders kindled against the night’s chill, for Geralt had told him enough of Brokilon and her guardians that he hadn’t been willing to risk burning branch and twig so close to her borders. It was not his camp that had drawn unfriendly eyes. Across the water, a band of travelers was quickly becoming encircled by an armed and armored force.

It was too far to make out a standard, but there was no need: only one army wore the blackened steel. _Nilfgaard._

He had little time to wonder at how the soldiers had come to be there, for in their midst--slashing and brawling--was a familiar sight. He couldn’t account for it, but he recognized that sheaf of blonde hair, that velvet cap. 

_Priscilla._

Well. There was nothing for it.

“Oy!”

He dashed across the river as loudly as possible, drawing the eyes of everyone on the opposite bank. It would have felt ridiculous, if it wasn’t so effective: Priscilla made fine use of the distraction, taking one of the scouts out at the knees before he could realize his mistake. He screamed in pain, his kneecap clearly dislocated. The other soldiers quickly recovered and Jaskier was met with steel at the water’s edge. Seeing Jaskier and his weapons had support well in hand, the rest of Priscilla’s companions quickly fled the scene, retreating to what relative protection distance could provide.

Priscilla held her own. Her dagger spun end-over-end and before it had even met its target, she was charging. No one ever expected a pretty waif to go in at a full sprint, but that’s what always made it so entertaining. The small knife lodged in the meat of the man’s thigh and in his reaction, an instinctive curve of body over wound, she swung upward with both hands clenched in a single fist.

Jaskier nearly forgot his own opponent and had to dance out of the way of a wild sword swing. He countered with steel, the solid blade redirecting the next swing down and away. Neither he nor the stiletto had the strength to block by brute force alone.

A howl of pain made Jaskier glance over. The dagger was now jutting out at an odd angle while the man himself cursed and shook. Priscilla must have kicked it.

“Just like old times, eh?” He called, clipping the chin of the soldier with his fist, fingers still curled around a hilt. She laughed--high and delighted--trapping the howling man’s neck in the crook of her elbow.

“Bit less drunk.”

That much was true. Bar room brawlers also knew when to cut their losses, even if it meant being bested by a pair of lute-strumming bards. These Nilfgaardians meant to kill them.

Jaskier spun, putting himself between Priscilla and the still-upright danger. It was as much practical as it was a ploy; a “calculated risk” the Cats called it. For when he pretended to overreach with his swing, he exposed his friend--still wrestling with the man in her chokehold--and drew attention to her vulnerable position all in one go. In the soldier’s brief hesitation, Jaskier swung backwards with his off-hand. The stiletto drove straight in below the chest leathers, flesh and gut rent by silver. Jaskier twisted the blade as he pivoted carefully back to face him.

He met the look of disbelief with his own grim expression. He preferred monsters and beasts, truly--no matter what evils Nilfgaard was rumored to commit, it gave him no pleasure to watch the light leave the man’s eyes. But nor could he look away. When it was done, he lowered the dead man to the rocky shore and pulled his blade free.

He wiped the Nilfgaardian’s blood on the scout’s own black velvet tunic, then slipped each stiletto back into its sheaths. It was poor treatment for the blades in the moment, but there would be time later to clean them properly. For now, he stepped gingerly over the man he’d neatly gutted and joined his friend. 

At the water’s edge, Priscilla retrieved her dagger with a wrench, loosing more blood across the pebbled shore. The second scout lay still--whether unconscious or killed, Jaskier couldn’t say. Exhaustion was writ across her face when she turned to him, but there was relief there too. “What in all the hells are you doing here, Jaskier?” 

“Besides heroically rescuing you?” and he pulled her in for a fierce hug, mindful of her blade. Reassured she was all of one piece, he resettled her cap and stepped back. “I thought you were in Verden.”

“We were.” Priscilla’s face darkened. “King Ervyll’s festival was still going when the news reached us. We legged it that night, but this wasn’t our first skirmish. And our guide--” 

“News? What news?”

Priscilla looked down. “Cintra has fallen.”

Her words were a gut-punch, a force that bowed him as much as it bewildered him. For Nilfgaard to have taken Cintra? It was _impossible_ \-- 

“Calanthe--?”

“Dead. Along with most of the noble houses.” 

Jaskier staggered, and Priscilla reached for him, stricken by his reaction. He waved her away, his skin too tight, his magic a torrent of pain in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she amended with added softness. “I know you were oft welcomed in their halls.”

“No, I--”

And this time, when she sought out his hand, Jaskier let her take it. 

“ _Tell me_.”

Priscilla’s face was pinched with sorrow when she answered, and Jaskier was grateful for the grip of her hand. “They say the city burned for two days.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. _Breathe_ , he told himself; and if his mind’s own voice shook, then he was the only one privy to it. The Queen was dead, but what of Princess Cirilla? Priscilla had made no mention of her fate, and something stayed Jaskier from asking. He had to trust that time would reveal more, for Fate had rested her iron net upon the child and it could not be her Destiny to fall with the besieged city. _Nothing is certain; only the way forward_ , he reminded himself. _There is no path but the road._

If something had happened--if Geralt had _fallen_...surely he would have sensed it?

“Cici?”

The troupe had done admirably to hold their peace during this recounting, but at this interruption Jaskier was staunchly reminded of both their presence and of the danger they were courting by standing on the shore, bold as buttons. They had been brave enough in the skirmish, but fighters they were not. Looking around, he saw the fear in their faces. He squeezed Priscilla’s hand tightly and withdrew, resolving himself to staying firmly in the present. 

“Well?” He motioned South with a tilt of his head--grateful by the quirk of her lips that Priscilla knew him so well as she did; question and commitment tied to a single word.

“All of Nilfgaard is on the march, pushing towards the Yaruga.”

Jaskier nodded once, decided. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?”

* * *

_Vizima_

The party trudged through the city gates--just another group in the long line of refugees--half-ignored by the city guardsman meant to be taking their names. Jaskier knew that suited Priscilla just fine: her general interactions with bored civil servants usually ended in some degree of bloodshed, and so, on her account, he chose not to cause a scene. It happened anyway.

“Jaskier?!”

Triss gaped at him from the other side of a line of city guard. She was dressed in deep emerald, from her gown to her traveling cloak, and when her eyes caught up with her mouth her expression pinched with worry.

Her voice carried across the courtyard, drawing looks: “You look _terrible_.” 

The guards parted like a river for the sorceress, almost tripping on themselves to avoid getting in her way, but he doubted she even noticed. The line was advancing, and it was be swept along with it or earn the ire of the guards, so Jaskier stepped out of line. At Priscilla’s sharp look, he nodded her onward with the others. He’d be protected by Triss’ influence he was sure, but there was no reason to push the city’s goodwill.

One of the guards, an older Temerian with a ragged scruff of a beard, got as far as a hand on Jaskier’s arm, when Triss arrived. It only took a curious glance from Triss and the man dropped his grip like Jaskier’s arm had gone redhot and the man made himself scarce. Either Triss was held in higher regard in Foltest’s court than Jaskier thought or she terrified them. In these strange times, either explanation was possible.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Jaskier could hear the reproach beneath the concern.

“‘Visit Temeria,’ you said. ‘Always welcome,’ you said.” Jaskier executed an extravagant bow, as if he was clothed in the finest of apparel rather than a significant layer of dirt. “Well, here I am.”

“ _Now?_ ”

He grinned. “I appreciate you not saying ‘I told you so’--very big of you.”

Around them, the press of bodies continued forward into the capital city. Overseen by a harried collection of guardsmen, refugees from the south jostled for admittance alongside locals; villagers from the farmlands outside Vizima who’d been forcefully relocated to inside the city walls. Jaskier had heard the grumbles on their march in, but Nilfgaard left only scorched earth behind their march. Merchants disrupted the flow in all directions--some set down roots in the mercantile rings of the city; many were only passing through, dragging carts laden with the sum of their possessions and trying to get as far North as they could; others, keen to risk the profit, were hastily restocking their wagons in an aim to head South. Triss encompassed it all with a sweep of her arm, slender bracelets of gold and gem clinking together.

“How can you jest at a time like this?”

“If I don’t make jokes, then I’d be obliged to take this war seriously!” He made a face. “Can you imagine?”

“Jaskier…”

His smile dampened somewhat. “I know how bad it is, Triss,” he returned, his tone uncommonly serious. He pulled her outstretched arm back in, both hands curling around her wrist. “It’s why I’m here. I was helping a band of travellers out of a tricky spot--among them is a friend of mine. Can you get them to Redania?”

To his surprise, she hesitated. “I’ve been summoned to a council of mages,” she explained, apologetic but harried. The traveling cloak made some sense now, though it wasn’t like Triss to bother when a simple portling was involved.

“Aretuza?”

“Yes--the Brotherhood is voting on what to do regarding Nilfgaard.” Passion was high in her cheeks, the warm skin beneath her freckles tinged pink. “They _must_ help Cintra.”

Jaskier thought such a decision was unlikely--given what he knew of the council--, but there was no telling Triss that. He frowned. Even now the layers of sweat and dirt were making his skin itch, and his feet ached as badly as if he’d spent the day kicking rock trolls. He wanted nothing more than to slide into a hot bath and scrub himself pink.

“If that’s your aim, there’s things you should know.”

Triss bit her lip, torn by time and interest. The lie came easy.

“I’m headed that way. I’ll talk while you portal.” 

“If you’re sure…” she hedged, but the quick glance she shot over her shoulder betrayed her. (She really needed to do something about her tells.)

“The horse comes too.”

Her surprised huff of laughter eased the tension. 

“Fine,” she relented, “But we have to go now.”

“Not a problem--Priscilla?” He hurried to where she was standing (arguing over which inn to stay at), and hugged her fiercely. “I’ve got to go.”

She returned the hug with equal strength. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said when they parted, looking over his shoulder at Triss; a sharply raised eyebrow the only sign of what she was thinking. “I owe you a favor now.”

“You already owe me ten.” Jaskier tweaked her braid. 

“A drink then,” she amended, knocking his fingers away with one hand. The other slapped him playfully on the cheek. “Find me in Novigrad--come thirsty!”

His heart burst with affection for her.

He spared one last jaunty wave to her as he walked backwards, then he turned on his heel and hurried to catch up with Triss.

\----

“There’s a private courtyard. This way.” 

Triss led him across the main thoroughfare and up through the winding sidestreets. Jaskier was surprised by the count of soldiers extending beyond the main gate. He’d heard Foltest was bolstering his standing army, conscription and the like, to join the fight against Nilfgaard. But it looked as if every soldier was here behind the walls. He jogged to catch up with Triss, Ganymede trotting pleasantly behind him.

“Advance troops are pushing up the Ribbon,” he told her. The journey to Vizima had been long and Priscilla had told him all she knew.

“A full regiment?” A locked gate swung upon easily at her touch and the pair slipped inside. As she’d said, the courtyard before them was empty -- stonework softened by the heavy spread of vine and soon-to-bloom flowers. 

“Scouts, really, but they’re razing the Eastern bank. And to the West--”

“ _Brokilon_.” She took up a position in the center of a ring of benches and began casting. 

The dryads were isolationists, but--provided you kept clear of their borders _and_ on the Eastern side of the river--they were generally inclined to leave most travelers well enough alone. _Generally_.

“And the Scoia’tael. Unfriendly at the best of times, I can tell you--but…”

“But?” She prompted.

“It’s only rumors,” Jaskier hedged. “Rumors that put the Squirrels in the pockets of the Empire--or nearly so.”

Triss’ frown deepened. The sway of her arms stilled for a moment as the news registered

“An alliance with _Nilfgaard_? What could they gain from such a thing?”

“I can’t say, but the Empire’s gain is clear enough.” _Enemies on all sides._

And then she asked what he’d been hoping to avoid from the start of their unexpected rendezvous: “What compelled you to go so near to Brokilon in the first place?” 

_Well_. Priscilla was the easiest answer. A friend in need, as Triss already knew--and, quite obviously, not a move out of his character. Yet it was an answer that wouldn’t stand for long; he’d happened upon the bard and her entourage in their hour of need, a fortuitous meeting and nothing more. Jaskier chewed the inside of his cheek; decided one lie was enough for today. The portal spiralled out in front of her hands; the material world tearing open. Through the swirling portal he could see a different street, a brighter sky.

He cleared his throat. “I was trying to get into Cintra.”

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the moment her surprise became something worse, something that smacked of pity. “Oh _Jaskier_ \--”

He stepped through before she could finish.

Portals were never a pleasant experience, but persistent exposure lessened the discomfort. Now, Jaskier hardly noticed the feeling of crawling insects across his skin, but his gut still twisted like cable around a winch. Ganymede was extremely vocal about the experience, but he managed to steer the horse clear of the doorway before Triss appeared on their heels, the portal curtaining closed behind her and sparks of chaos snapping at the hem of her dress. 

He saluted her cheekily with the hand still wrapped in Ganymede’s reins. “Thanks for the ride, Triss.”

But of course, that couldn’t be it. Triss took hold of his elbows and leaned close. He could smell her perfume, the scented oil she’d used in her curls. “Go _North_ , Jaskier,” she urged. “Get across the Pontar before the kings start closing their borders, and wait for this war to end.”

“Is that what you're going to do?”

He looked at her archly, and no less vexed was the sorceress’ expression. Such a stalemate was not uncommon throughout their shared history, but Triss had always been less stubborn than he, however unwilling she was to answer him now. Seeing as she’d get no such assurance of safe behavior from him, Triss simply sighed (people did that a lot around him) and laid an affectionate hand along his cheek.

“Take care, my old friend.” Her eyes closed briefly as she spoke, like a benediction, and before Jaskier could wonder if she’d indeed laid such a blessing upon him, she was stepping away. 

He watched her leave, headed to the West, toward Thanedd Island. Even from the center of Gors Velen, he could see the tall spire of Aretuza jutting into the sky, its walls gleaming with more than sunlight. Triss had told him once it was so heavily charged with Chaos that it was virtually impossible to portal within a mile of the isle.

He hummed thoughtfully, scritching Ganymede’s nose. The horse nickered and tossed his head, his mane shaking off the distinct iron smell that came with portalling. 

“You’re right,” Jaskier agreed, still looking to the distance. Behind them, the noise of the nearby tavern rose and fell as patrons came and went through its door. He glanced up at the stallion. “You’ll be okay here for a bit?”

Ganymede stamped his front hoof and neighed loudly, drawing Jaskier’s chagrin.

“Stupid question. Sorry.”

He hitched Ganymede to the tavern post beside a mild-mannered bay. Showing him the knot he’d used, he murmured promises into his mane; that he’d return in a few hours, that he’d brush him a hundred times when their travels were done, that he could easily break free and come find him if any of the drunks started getting ideas. Ganymede mouthed at his hair. Thus dismissed, Jaskier gave him one last fond pat and then strolled vaguely westward.

\----

It wasn’t a terribly long meeting, but it went about how Jaskier had expected.

The opposing viewpoints, which at first had seemed evenly held across the assembled mages, quickly fell to the pressures of power. Artorius had his majority disinterest, and those whose views aligned with Triss’ were scolded and dismissed like petulant children. All in all, it lasted maybe a quarter of an hour.

Jaskier had spent more time (and effort) sneaking in.

When they all stormed out, Jaskier waited. For Vilgefortz and Tissaia to pass, then Yennefer _(of course_ , Yennefer) floating in the wake of the rectoress. And last of all came Triss, quite conveniently. 

“Fairly civilized as disagreements go.”

He spoke soft enough that only the two sorceresses could have heard. Triss stopped short, surprised though not alarmed, but Yennefer reared back like a cat struck, summoning fire into her palm. Only then (only because he willed it) were they able to see Jaskier, leaning in the corner where their eyes had conveniently not gone before.

“Hello, Yennefer.”

“That’s some glamour, _bard_ ,” snapped Yennefer. The fire flared bright and threatening in her hand. 

“I’m not without my talents.” 

It had been nearly a year since he’d last seen her. Time had not dimmed the shocking violet of her eyes nor dulled the raven luster of her hair. She was terrifying, truly, but apart from their first meeting--her towering over him demanding he concede a djinn’s wish to her; him, not quite sure how he was even still alive--Jaskier had never been afraid of her.

“How did you get here?” she demanded.

“Hitched a ride from Vizima.”

Her scowl was a razor’s edge, “How did you get _here_.”

 _Wouldn’t you like to know_ , Jaskier thought. He would have bet all the money in his purse that it was just eating her up that he (of all people) had circumvented the tower’s defenses; and that she ( _of all people_ ) hadn’t noticed it.

“You finally caught me on a good day,” he answered smoothly, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. Over Yennefer’s shoulder, he saw Triss shaking her head, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “In fact, I think I’ll tag along.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, bard?”

“Oh, are you _not_ planning on defying the chapter and sneaking off to defend Sodden against the entire Nilfgaardian advance? Sorry, that was just the _vibe_ I was getting…mind you, it _was_ through a door--”

Yennefer’s disdain was palpable. “You’re insufferable."

“Thank you!” Jaskier chirped brightly.

Triss, naturally, interceded. It was truly a wonder she’d lasted as long as she had in this company of back-stabbers and ne’er-do-wells. Or, perhaps, the more wondrous was how the Brotherhood had held together for so long _without_ her diplomacy--for the gratitude she extended to him was both genuine and perfectly-timed. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

Yennefer hadn’t missed the implication either. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she hissed; though the other mages had left the halls well-ahead of them, they were still in Aretuza.

“We need all the help we can get, Yen,” Triss reminded her, with what passed as a stern look for Merigold. Jaskier had made his rough count of those in support of Sodden and it was paltry; judging by Yennefer’s face, her own math and assessment of that number was the same. His estimation of her might have risen, had she been able to resist one last dig at the prospect.

“ _Him?_ ”

“Intimidated by my beauty?”

Triss interjected before Yennefer could make reply to that--though Jaskier thought it might have been in blood, considering the caustic look she had leveled in his direction.

“We’ll portal to the Northern bank to hide our magical presence, then take boats across.”

“Splendid!” He rocked back on his heels. “My horse comes too.”

Yennefer scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

“Of course,” answered Triss.

  
  


* * *

_Sodden_

“Does Nilfgaard really believe it can take the whole continent?” Triss asked. Even in a damp boat, she was beautiful to Jaskier. Her normal pageantry was gone, her dress of red, roughspun fabric better suited for battle than her silks of sea and emerald. The fog turned the gold in her chestnut curls to silver, and though her face was drawn in concern her voice was steady.

Yennefer shrugged, cool and detached as ever. “They’ve been collecting soldiers. Occupying territories.”

“Letting loose their beliefs like an epidemic,” Jaskier added. He didn’t mind Yennefer’s sharp look over Triss’ shoulder; his thoughts were back in Oxenfurt. In his books. “They’ve done it before.”

Triss frowned. “I thought it was land they were after.”

“They’re zealots,” Yennefer said, her disgust palpable. “Of the worst sort. The man who leads them-- Emhyr? They call him _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd._ ”

“"The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies,” Jaskier translated, then grimaced. “How charming.”

“They were looking for something in Cintra. A prize of the Elder.”

Jaskier’s breath caught.

 _Cirilla_. The Child of Destiny.

He cleared his throat, feigning indifference though he could scarcely breathe for fear (for _hope_ ).

“And did they find it?” He was no actor, but if Yennefer had any notion of why such weight lay upon the question, she gave no indication. Nor did Jaskier feel the familiar press of her consciousness on his, though he dared to meet her eyes. Instead, she considered him (and her words) before answering.

“No,” she said finally. Jaskier didn’t dare let go the breath he was holding while her eyes remained fixed on him.“If they did, I doubt Emhyr would be marching North as if the Wild Hunt itself were pursuing him.”

“Lucky us,” he said breezily, and willed the wild running of his heart to calm.

Yennefer was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen her direct at him before. He might have even called it ‘interest.’ “That glamour--in Aretuza.” Her voice was low and quiet. “You’re part elven.” 

Jaskier inclined his head. Truth be told, he thought she of all people would have realized it sooner. “Just like you.”

They stared at each other, the boat rocking softly against the current. Then Yennefer’s lips curled into a smirk. “You’d better make yourself useful, _bard_.”

Jaskier grinned--the insult gone soft at the edges--and winked. “As you wish, _witch_.”

And just like that Jaskier felt his animosity toward her fizzle out and fade away. It had only been a small fire, after all--and more to do with himself than anything else. Perhaps in its place would grow something new, though for now he would be satisfied with polite conversation. But there was an understanding between them now as simple as blood, as simple as the lies that echoed between both their childhoods. 

They had only two days before Nilfgaard was due to appear. Two days and a scant sixty bodies to hold the only crossing into the North. Perhaps, if they both survived, it could become something like friendship.

  
  


\----

It had only taken them several hours walk to make it up from the river and into the Elven keep, but it was enough for Jaskier to appreciate why the bridge out of Sodden was essential. An army could lose days on either end in crossing without it. Nilfgaard’s or their own.

Triss was _certain_ Foltest would come--owing to that bit about his daughter being a Striga and Triss bringing in the only Witcher stupid enough to try and cure her. Jaskier trailed behind listening to his friend bait Yennefer.

“I had the help of a Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

“Be wary of his kind. They’re so often disappointing.” Her eyes cut across the courtyard, to _Jaskier_ , and he found himself meeting the curl of her lips with a smirk of his own. What a world they’d fallen into: he and Yennefer sharing a _joke_ . At _Geralt’s_ expense. A momentary lapse in sanity, to be sure.

Then Vilgefortz was calling Triss away and Jaskier was left alone with her. With more courage than he thought possible, he linked his arm through hers and resumed their walk. Yennefer stiffened instinctually, unwilling to be led, but after a moment’s indecision she settled--likely all those years of practice in the courts--though, her glare remained; Jaskier could feel it without even looking.

He decided on a topic they could both agree on.

“Just disappointing?” he asked, cheekily repeating the assertion she’d made of Witchers to Merigold. 

He wasn’t expecting the pulse of fury, or the way her jaw clenched like iron. Far from a safe topic, it would seem.

“On a good day,” she answered darkly. This anger felt sharper somehow. More personal. 

And then Jaskier knew why she wasn’t with Geralt, why--for all appearances--she hadn’t spoken to the Witcher for as long as he had. He angled them away from the milling crowds, towards the solitude of the ramparts.

“He told you, then? About Princess Cirilla?”

Yennefer’s lip curled. “The child surprise.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. They’d reached the outer wall. Despite the ruin of time, it was mostly intact and ran nearly the full perimeter of the keep to the South, opening only at the northernmost side where it opened onto the bridge. From where they’d wandered, the ramparts would offer a good view of the old road and the forest beyond. He gestured and, at Yennefer’s acquiescing nod, started up the stairs. 

“He was foolish enough to make the claim in the first place; even stupider to try and hide it.” It was the same as he had told Triss all those months ago, and time hadn’t made it any less true. But that retelling hadn’t included Yennefer. Or the reason for her anger. “Especially from you.”

He offered her a hand and was mildly tickled when she took it, letting him steady her on the climb. Stepping carefully over broken stone, Yennefer joined him on the open walkway where the sun was just beginning to break. Together they looked out across the open fields of grass and beyond, to the thin and winding road on which Nilfgaard was now marching. Jaskier was content to stand upon the wall and breathe the fresh air in silence (even in the company of a grumpy sorceress), so he was surprised when, after a moment’s quiet, Yennefer spoke.

“What he lacks in charm, is more than made up for in his general headassery.”

And Jaskier laughed. The wind was sharper up there. It tugged at their hair and found every loose seam in Jaskier’s jacket to slip in cool and bracing against his skin. The smell of heather carried on the breeze. Far across the river a small village was probably beginning its day, setting up its market and tending to its fields.

“Where did you go, then-- after the dragon?”

Yennefer turned a little so the wind blew her long hair away from her face. It suited her, this wildness, more than the polished elegance she so often clung to. “Many, many places.”

“Anywhere there might not be a Witcher?” Jaskier hazarded.

She didn’t look at him, but he knew he’d guessed right by the stiffening of her posture. He tallied another point in his favor, though it wasn’t as if he were keeping score or anything.

“Did it work?”

Now she did look at him, an eyebrow arched in consideration. “So far, so good.” Her tone implied she didn’t not think her luck would continue to hold. “And you?”

Ah, a point for the lady.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t step anywhere these days without trodding on one.” Or do a little more than _trodding_ , but that was hardly any of _her_ business. Yet the spring air felt so like the coming chill of winter, that he couldn’t help but think of Coën...and the warmer ways they’d passed the time. He sighed at the memory, for it belonged far from this place. “I should warn you--they’re not all stubborn, brooding idiots--if you can believe that.”

“Oh?” The look she gave sent Jaskier blushing straight down to his boots. “I think that must be seen to be believed.” 

He cleared his throat. “We should probably head back.”

“Hm.” She was delighting in his discomfort, he was sure of it. “We should.”

Neither of them moved to go.

“So?” he gestured to the stairs.

“Ask your question first.”

 _What?_

Yennefer turned then, knocking back the curtain of hair, and crossed her arms in front of her.

“You’ve been waiting since we got on the river, and it’s giving me a headache,” she declared--as if he’d done it on purpose! Rather than stand there like a child to be scolded, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started down the stairs.

“You could’ve just popped in, you know,” he grumbled. He felt wrong-footed--called out in a way that he hadn’t been expecting. “Triss does it often enough.”

“I have no desire to wade through the mire of your mind, bard.”

“Rude,” he retorted with little heat. Yennefer drifted behind him.

“Ask it, so that we might end this conversation.” 

He was pretty certain that if he just kept walking he could’ve ended it well enough--but, she wasn’t wrong. From the moment they’d left Aretuza he’d been haunted by a question only she could answer. And even then, he had no assurance that, if she _did_ answer, it would be the truth. So he’d held his tongue. Now that it had come to it, he didn’t know if he could stomach the answer.

He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Is he still alive?”

Yennefer stopped walking.

“I’ve surprised you,” he teased faintly; his delight softened by the thrum of nerves.

“No.” She said it automatically, to be contrary--and Jaskier would have laughed were it not for the puzzled lines that creased her brow as she corrected herself. “Yes.”

He swallowed. “‘Yes,’ what?”

“Yes, you surprised me. That was--” she paused and her words became more careful. “I had expected...something else.”

“ _Yen…_ ” His need for an answer stilled his breath, and he could not finish.

For all her rage and all her power, they were more similar than alike. Perhaps they had seen too much of themselves in each other to get along peaceably. Perhaps that was why----. But no matter how it had come to pass, they both knew what it was to love Geralt of Rivia. So she told him what he most desired to know:

“Yes, he is alive.”

He felt the words echo through him like a single, perfect chord. 

All at once, his lungs felt too full of air, yet he couldn’t breathe. He felt staggered. Tipping his head forward, he drew in one rattling breath after the other, fingers clenched to keep from pressing at the rattling of his ribcage. _Fuck_.

He and Yennefer _were_ too similar--for what else was there to say? Battle and death would soon be upon them and they had not the luxury or right to worry over the fate of one man---a man far, far away from this place and from them. So Jaskier straightened his shoulders, blinked hard to clear his eyes, and kept walking.

Yennefer did not follow. 

  
  


_Thank you._

And he knew, somehow, she had heard him.

\----

Apart from Triss, who’d known him since he was barely out of childhood, Jaskier hadn’t spent all that much time around mages. Of course there had been some stationed in Novigrad and they would often visit the libraries in Oxenfurt, but they’d never seemed keen on conversation. They were an obsessively secretive lot and the bardic college had its own measures it would rather stay private, so Jaskier had been specifically scolded against pressing the matter.

 _Now_ , however...well his curiosity was under no such restrictions, and he’d spent the better part of the morning strolling around the encampment. Snooping.

A few of the mages had been keen to talk--they were the rebellious contingent of the Brotherhood after all--but admitted little of what they had in their arsenal required advanced preparation. So he’d found Triss and, under the pretense of taking lunch, had settled with her just inside the main courtyard to watch what he could.

The villagers were fletching arrows and barricading the passageways that had fallen to ruin. As he had no talent for archery and even lesser strength, he was of no help in either case.Sabrina was busy bottling the blue stones; dull as they were now, they’d gleam enough upon impact if he’d made out her muttering rightly. (For as predominantly as they positioned themselves within the ruling kingdoms, the sorceresses in particular were surprisingly tight-lipped about their magics. _As if they were the only ones capable of wielding it…_ )

“What’s your contribution to be?”

Jaskier blinked mildly at Yennefer, his attention brought back to the matter at hand. The raven-haired sorceress had been overseeing the preparations at Tissaia’s request, and Jaskier had been more than happy to stay out of her way--newly-found understanding or no. He’d been regaling Triss with stories of his travels since Kovir when Yennefer swept into the courtyard, imperious in her corded gown, and he’d trailed off hoping not to be noticed. Their recent conversation still hung heavy in his thoughts.

No such luck apparently. Triss elbowed him in the ribs, prompting Jaskier to answer.

“A charmng smile?” He slid off the wall he’d been sitting on and the Cat blades were in his hands, dark-gleaming even in the full sun. Yennefer scoffed.

“If they’re close enough for bladework, it’s over.”

Jaskier sighed, “Magic then?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got something we can use.” 

To the point as always.

“A ‘notice-me-not’,” he said. “Not my preferred form of glamour; bad for business, you know. But if you’re strong enough it can get you through a lot. Even Aretuza.”

If the last barb caught, the sorceress didn’t show it. When she set her focus on something, it was nigh impossible to break it (as Jaskier well knew).

“It’ll have to be strong to get past Fringilla.” 

Why did people always insist on a demonstration? It was a waste of magic, in his opinion -- magic he should be reserving for the battle ahead -- but there was no use arguing with Yen when she got like this; he should know. Away went the blades. “Keep your eyes on Triss.”

Unlike the chaos-work taught in the halls of Aretuza or the hand-tied Signs used by Witchers, the magic of the elves was mostly intrinsic. Gestures, if any were required, were unique to the Elder using them and served more as a focus rather than a required component; a means of channeling the chaos contained within them.

He rubbed his thumb against his forefingers, laying a basic glamour over Triss. It was the easiest and lightest of his notice-me-notes: it smudged her edges, as if she were being looked at through a dirty window; obnoxious, but still clearly visible to everyone in the courtyard.

He didn’t give Yennefer time to object. The color of Triss’ dress began to warp and bleed, like spilled waterpaints. Then spaces began appearing where there shouldn’t be any: a white blotch of sunlight in place of one eye. Then her collarbone. The entirety of her right hand. And then the sunlight became the stone wall behind her, the mages moving to and fro in the background clearly visible; holes burned clear through her image. The sight was unnatural, and so disorienting Yennefer felt the compulsion to look away.

“Can you see her?”

“Yes,” she gritted out.

Then she wrenched her gaze away, fighting the urge to vomit into the bushes. The world teetered high on its axis like a ship at sea, and though she was sure of her own footing, it might only have been because she was standing still. When Yennefer forced herself to look again, Triss was gone.

“Triss?”

“I’m still here.”

But there was only void where she’d once stood. Grass and roots and stone, but Yennefer’s mind refused to reconcile what it wasn’t seeing. Even Triss’ voice sounded distorted, warped as if through water. Point proven, Jaskier dropped the glamour and Triss seemed to “pop” back into existence, looking far better than her two companions. Yen’s pale skin was tinged with green and Jaskier was sweating.

“How many can you cover with that?”

Jaskier debated lying, just to annoy her--but there _was_ an army on their doorstep after all. He wiped the back of his shirtsleeve across his forehead and took a measure of his magic still in reserve. He sucked his teeth, then admitted,“Maybe two? And not for very long.”

She pressed a thumb to the pulse in her wrist and took a steadying breath, all while still managing to look supremely unimpressed with him. He assumed it was a natural gift.

“The sun will be setting soon. Let’s see if I can show you something of worth.”

_What was with everyone trying to teach him magic?_

“Magic isn’t really my bag,” he started.

“Tough.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Pay attention.”

Yennefer drew her open palm down the center of her face, bringing her fingers together as if pulling at a string. Then she flung her gathered nothingness to the right, fingers splayed wide: beside her materialized and identical Yennefer, down to the velvet choker at her throat. She repeated the gesture, tossing the duplication to her other side, where a third Yennefer appeared.

“Do you want me to hide you or make more of you?” he grumbled.

“I want a little more effort,” she replied sharply. When she leveled that look upon him, he bristled, thoughts wandering unbidden to the Incident on the Mountain. “I thought you were a quick study?”

Yennefer’s eyes weren’t kind. If they’d ever looked upon him with anything fonder than annoyance, Jaskier couldn’t remember it--and there was nothing quite so memorable about the witch as those eyes of hers. The pale purple of lilacs in winter. As far as teachers went, she would not have been his first choice

But as he’d told Coën--spite worked just as well.

Whether the movements were required or not, Jaskier did as she did--but as with any magic, it was the intention that mattered most of all. He pulled down, as if upon a mask, lifting the invisible layer away, not unlike when he placed a glamour. Then he flung it out, willing the shell of magic to fill. With a bit more gusto in his gesture, Jaskier’s doppelganger didn’t so much materialize as burst into existence. From his tousled--and good lord was his hair in such a state?--brunette crown to his dark suede boots, the illusion was a perfect mirror of the bard.

“Hello there!” He and his duplicate chimed as one, waving cheerily at one another.

Triss sighed. “Oh _no_ …” 

\----

Night fell.

There was no point in hiding their presence now, so the fortress ruins were aglow with half a dozen bonfires. The locals and the mages were crowded around them in mixed company, most conversations merry despite the darkening hour and uncertain future. After acquiescing to a few requests for song, Jaskier excused himself--drink in hand--from the revelry.

Without haste, he wound his way through the makeshift camp, exchanging pleasantries here and there. The locals had been quite welcoming; some had even heard a song or two of his, and judged them “passing fair,” which brought him no end of delight. His presence also seemed to cheer them; how bad could a battle be, if a bard was in their midst.

Outside the perimeter of campfires, Jaskier reached the foot of the central tower and began to climb. The night was growing cool, colder even outside the reach of the fire, but the stairs kept the warmth in his limbs and it felt good to be in his own company for a while. He settled himself at the top, legs stretched long in front of him. From his vantage point, he could see the whole of the camp stretched out below--the flickering of torches and campfires like a swarm of fireflies.

A few bodies were still walking the walls; keeping a watch on the distant horizon. Nilfgaards’s army was still a day’s march away at best counting, but it wouldn’t do to become careless; not with as powerful a sorceress as Fringilla heading their advance. He’d never met her, but Triss had called her a friend once. Before Aedirn was taken from her; before Nilfgaard. As Yennefer had been the witch-in-waiting for Aedirn for some time, Jaskier could easily fathom how the blood had soured between them. Then again, he hadn’t known Yennefer to be particularly friendly towards anyone, save perhaps Tissaia de Vries. Not even Geralt. 

_Geralt_.

Yennefer had sworn he was still alive. If it was a lie, it was one Jaskier was happy to believe. 

The world was a dangerous place, now more than ever; he feared how dangerous it had become for a man without cause. Loneliness was a hard burden to bear for as easily as it could be pushed aside. It _weighed_. He’d thought he’d go sick with it in the years before he’d met Geralt; and in the days after their parting. Even music had only eased the pain of it, a temporary balm as he traveled far from Oxenfurt. He’d been lucky in his friends; Shani, Priscilla, Triss. Soren too, though the absolute thrashing he’d receive for calling him such would be worth it. Some he’d lose to the long wear of time, but all were precious to him, for their care and friendship kept him afloat in the wild waters of the world. They showed him the way forward--and that was no small gift. 

Apart from the others, Yennefer and Tissaia were having a drink together. The rectoress was a stern woman; she’d hardly said a word during the river crossing and had clearly been displeased by his presence in the party. Jaskier didn’t blame her. Even he didn’t quite know why he was there.

Except that Cintra had fallen--the place where all his hopes had been pinned. 

Except Triss was going into great peril, and he would be unworthy of her friendship if he had not gone to face it with her.

 _A flickering candle, the fire went out  
_ _A cold wind blew perceptibly  
_ _And the days pass  
_ _And time passes_

He sang until the torches dimmed, until the world beneath him grew hushed and quiet and he fell into a grey and fitful sleep.

  
\----

Men were shouting, no-- _screaming_! 

Jaskier bolted to his feet and found the sky aflame.

He ran for the ledge and saw her--Yennefer. An enormous fireball held at bay by her will alone. All around villagers and mages fled, their bedrolls scattering, but not her. Her arms strained with the force of it; all fire and Chaos. With a grunt of effort she hurled it away and Jaskier watched it streak off to the east like a blazing comet.

Dawn had come, with Nilfgaard on its heels. 

Jaskier took the stairs two at a time, adding his shouts to hers. “Get up! GET UP--Nilfgaard is coming!”

He crashed into Triss near the artillery. “You’re alright?”

“Thanks to Yennefer.”

“Those were just warning shots.” Vilgefortz appeared, with Tissaia and Sabrina just behind.

“It worked.” Triss looked back across the keep, empty of more than just shadows in the early light. “Most of the villagers have fled.”

“And the mages.” Yennefer reported sourly. Soot and sweat marred the paleness of her face, but she was whole and alive--and absolutely furious. Jaskier had never felt fonder of her. “They skulked away like cowards.”

While the mages turned to bickering, Jaskier turned his gaze southward. His eyes were little better than an ordinary human’s, and significantly worse than a Witcher’s or a sorceress’s, but right now he was the only one looking to see the mist beginning to rise above the trees. “I’m no expert, but I don’t like the look of that fog…”

It certainly put an end to the conversation. Vilgefortz joined him at the wall; his answer was grim. “They’re coming.”

Tissaia leapt to action. “Sabrina--take the villagers to the artillery room. Triss, come with me.” 

Jaskier fell in behind her, keeping close to Triss. He was better suited to small skirmishes, but he’d promised a spell or two, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make sure Triss was first in line.

Yennefer was given a task as well: “Keep watch on the tower.” Jaskier couldn’t hear what else was said between them, but Yennefer did not look happy about it. The rectoress, however, seemed to be the one person with whom she would not argue. A moment later, Tissaia was hustling the pair of them down into the courtyard, and Jaskier didn’t dare look back. 

\----

Poisonous spores laid waste to swaths of soldiers still in the trees by Triss’ hand, and those that staggered out were met by Coral, her grip tightening again and again on their fragile bones. Sabrina and her bombers rained down blue-bright explosions from the upper walls; cover enough for Vilgefortz, who planned to do something truly foolish.

And above them all, Yennefer kept watch -- her voice echoing strong and clear in each of their minds.

Someone screamed, an arrow bursting from her chest--as if by magic. The whistling sound was their only warning of the next volley, and Jaskier yanked Triss behind a column of stone. Another punched-out sound of surprise and a man who hadn’t moved fast enough was now staring at the arrow embedded in his shoulder, invisible up until it had pierced his flesh--fired from an invisible archer beyond the wall. 

Not even that hellish fog Fringilla had conjured up could obscure an entire man. This was _glamour magic_. Nilfgaard had concocted their own notice-me-not and was using it to advance their archers.

“Well, that’s hardly sporting.”

Another arrow appeared as it splintered against the stone wall, wood and fletching scattering across the rampart.

“Invisibility is your thing, isn’t it?”

“I’d hardly call it my ‘thing’--”

“Can’t you undo it?”

“Triss!”

“You’re a bard. Improvise!”

“Easy for you to say!”

That was music, not _magic_. He’d never tried to counteract someone else’s spell, much less one of this scale and magnitude. To cover an entire sortie of archers, it had to be a singularly powerful caster or several working in tandem. He reached out with his senses, tracing the invisible path back from the arrow--looking for the magic sideways. That was how it was with glamours. He remembered his mother laying hers in neat rows just out of sight, plucking at the invisible strings of Chaos. Like a loom. 

Like a _lute_.

He bit the inside of his cheek. If he could disrupt the _harmonics_ of the glamour, inject a little dissonance…His own magic flared, kindling at the prospect. 

“Don’t let me get shot,” he requested archly before closing his eyes. He reached out with one hand, hoping he wasn’t about to lose it to an arrow.

He rarely encountered other glamour magic--elves not being particularly prevalent in the world--and so had never had cause to try and unravel a spell that wasn’t his own. He could feel the path in the air, could track its course with growing certainty the longer he pretended not to see. He’d bent light away from Triss to draw the eye and make her disappear; now he bent it back, clearing the shadows around the voids he could sense scattered on the field below, each one a hidden archer. 

The glamour resisted. Hand shaking, he grabbed his wrist with his other hand to hold it steady as the vibrations intensified. Just a little _notice-me_ in their notice-me-not.

He felt something _give_. He opened his eyes as a Nilfgaardian flickered into sight. Triss’ archers loosed and he fell, still blinking in and out.

“It’s working, Jas!”

He kept pushing, kept reaching--even as soldiers continued to appear and disappear below. Some scattered, but most continued to push, moving erratically to keep from being pinned down. They weren’t what Jaskier was after. The mage, the string-puller...he was close. If he just changed the key...

He crashed the resonance of his magic into the foreign glamour. Lights sparked off, like tinder struck, but it was enough: a flare in the dark of the woods. As Jaskier sagged behind the rampart, winded as though he’d just run the entire length of Oxenfurt, Triss issued the command and their own archers rained down hell from the walls. The second volley struck true: as soon as the mage was hit, the glamour spell splintered and failed.

_**“What did you do?”** _

Yennefer’s question forcibly entered his mind without so much a by-your-leave, her voice echoing in his head like a tin cup. He grimaced up at the tower but all he could see of her was a grey blur.

**“ _Bard stuff_.”**

A concussive wave hit the wall. Jaskier was knocked back on his arse, but Triss was still standing. Both of them were covered in dust.

**_“They’ve breached the gate!”_ **

“How?” he gasped, too stunned to think it, but Triss was already climbing over the wreckage.

**_“I’ll take care of it.”_ **

“Triss, wait--”

**_“Shit! Take cover!”_ **

The ground opened up in front of them. A swirling cyclone of wind and dirt and fog. Triss stopped--stunned--but Jaskier had heard Yennefer’s warning. With one hand he made the sign for Quen and with the other, he grabbed Triss’ arm while he ran, yanking her to his chest as he spun, putting his back to the vortex. Fabric tore, someone screamed, and the sound of arrows filled the air.

It lasted only a handful of seconds. Jaskier’s shield fizzled out as the wind died. He’d felt the impacts, the steel points intent on finding their mark, but the magic had held, and the splintered remnants of arrows lay scattered at their feet. 

Coën’s lesson had saved them both. The others had not been so lucky.

So many. So many were dead. People Triss had known for several lifetimes.

But they couldn’t stay there.

“Triss,” he said quietly. “The gate.”

She pulled herself from her shock then, nodding a little. It was harder to look away, to stop bearing witness to the dead, but at last she did, though he could see it pained her terribly. She gathered her resolve, donning it as one would armor--as if it would help her bear this new weight--and gestured Jaskier onwards.

“Let’s go.”

Of all the Chaos at her disposal, Triss’ affinity was for the deep and growing things. The earth itself rose to meet her as she ran for the gate, Jaskier on her heels. Roots stretching all the way from the forest burst from the hard-packed earth, clinging to each other and to the crumbling stone archway. Jaskier watched as she shoved both hands against rock and the roots punched through like nails, drawn by her call. Vine, twig, and branch became a net, a wall at her command. 

Nilfgaard threw themselves at the barrier. The force knocked both her and Jaskier back, but the branches held and Triss was quickly back in the fray, hands moving with the weft and weave. Next came the blades. Swords and axes hacked at the barrier, and whatever intention Triss had instilled in them, the wood was still wood. Great swathes splintered off, exposing holes through which the soldiers tried to press their advantage.

Jaskier’s eyes were as sharp as his blades and even as Triss choked the front gate with bramble and branch, his stilettos found the gaps--thrusting deep into the guts of soldiers before pulling back, finding a new opening as each closed behind his blade.

“You can’t keep this up,” he grunted, parrying the spear tip that had forced its way through.

Triss’ hands surged upward, sealing the breach with more bracken. “I have to,” she gritted out.

 **“ _Do not stop, Triss!_ " **Yennefer was firm. **" _I’ll find Tissa--”_**

The tower exploded behind them. 

Jaskier spun, ears ringing from the sound and the screams. But all was smoke and stone and-- _blue_. 

He watched Sabrina’s body hit the ground. It was too far and the sound of battle too near to hear the impact, but she lay with such terrible stillness, limbs splayed out around her. 

“ _By all the gods--_ ”

Yennefer landed--impossibly--on her feet beside her. Then she faltered, a hand at her stomach, before crouching beside her fallen sister. Jaskier strained to see, hoping against hope that his fears were wrong, but when Yennefer staggered to her feet--without Sabrina--that was answer enough.

And then she was moving away--stumbling, but with purpose in her steps--until the smoke and fog swallowed her up and Jaskier could no longer see her.

Danger was already within the wall.

“I’m going over.”

“No!” Triss made to grab for him, but fire burst across the gateway and she had to use both hands to smother the flames. Her eyes were wild-bright and pleading. “They’ll _kill you_.”

Jaskier pressed his palm to Triss’ back, and the image of Sabrina’s still body flashed through his mind. “They’re already killing us.”

And just like before, Triss’ outline blurred and warped, fading from sight until there was nothing left of her at all. Though the vines continued to sprout from the earth, winding and weaving in thick knots, it appeared he stood alone at the gate. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do now to protect her.

Making himself invisible was a bit harder. The net he’d laid over Triss shone like gold when he closed his eyes--a single thread connecting her to his heart, down which small beads of magic steadily pulsed, maintaining the illusion. 

The phantom of his voice, lilting in the smoky air, carried behind him as he began to climb the wall. “Don’t die before I get back.”

Triss’ voice echoed after, as if from a great distance: “I promise.”

\----

He found Coral and killed the men left standing over her body.

Crept between them like a ghost and killed them, one by one. When it was done, when Jaskier was standing in the ring of half a dozen--a dozen?--bodies with steel and silver slick with blood, his image flickered back into sight. The glamour had slipped through his fingers, numb from gripping so tightly to his blades. He could have fought it...but what did it matter now.

Nilfgaard’s ranks were infinite. 

He’d killed more humans today than he had in his entire life, and it had made no difference. They just _kept coming_. With their blackened steel and their spears and swords and twisted Chaos. 

_It made no difference_ , he thought as his hands shook. As he looked at what he had wrought and the bile rose in his throat.

So this was the cause of men: death and ruin. And for what? To lay claim to all of the Continent, to become lords of realms that were not their own? Frustration and anguish warred inside him, and beyond that--a swelling rage.

Where the hell was Vilgefortz? Where was Tissaia--who had strode so calmly into the forest to face Fringilla?

He closed Coral’s eyes, and said a prayer to Melitele. For all the good it would do her now.

  
How many had been lost today? 

How many might have lived if the Brotherhood had taken a stand?  
  


How much longer could they hold out?

**\----**

**_“Is anyone out there?”_ **

Jaskier fell back against a tree, hand pressed to his side as he tried to catch his breath. _Yennefer._ In the distance, he could just see the top of the fortress--thick waves of smoke curling up into the darkening sky. Gods he was tired.

 _“_ I’m here,” he breathed, barely loud enough to fog the air. He glanced down and winced as his hand came away bloody. 

**_“Is anyone still alive?”_ **

Jaskier had never heard her like that. 

Desperate. 

_Afraid_.

 ** _“I’m here,”_** he repeated in his mind, more forcefully this time. He pushed off the tree, staggering as he scanned the air for an answer. **“** ** _Yen?”_**

The clearing was silent. 

**“ _Yen, I’m coming!”_**

\----

_Jaskier was alive._ Jaskier was coming. 

Nilfgaard was coming too.

They were endless--no matter how many she killed, no matter how many fell, more continued to pour from the forest like spiders. 

She didn’t bother with finesse, instead blasting them back with sheer force. Two here, three there--her Chaos slammed them back, twisting bones with unforgiving brutality. If this was to be her last stand, for fucking Sodden Hill _,_ then she’d take the whole wretched place down with her--

An energetic _whoop_ and a bright blue streaked past her vision. Blades whirling like a thing, the bard _leapt_ , and the soldier charging her staggered back, arms raised in shocked defense--only to have the mad-grinning bard phase straight through him.

_A duplicate._

In the half-second it took for the ruse to register, the soldier was dead--two stilettos buried in his gut, the real Jaskier striking true on the heels of his shade. The soldier crumpled at his feet with a wet gurgle.

“A handy trick, that!”

Yen stared at him--feeling the inexplicable urge to laugh and smack him all at once. Because it was easier to think about that than the surge of relief his appearance had brought. She was not alone.

And then he was upon them. There were so many advancing on Yen’s position that he couldn’t move without bloodying his blades. The ones he didn’t reach were blown back on a cannon-fire of magic, Yen wielding Chaos from the high ground with deadly focus. Adrenaline carried him--running amok, slashing and dashing throughout the staggered wave of Nilfgaardians--his own injuries forgotten. His duplicate drew most of their attention, letting him slip in slyly and unnoticed. For the most part.

 **_THUNK!_ ** A wild swing from the last and the pommel of a sword cracked across his temple. His vision rolled like a ship at sea and he dropped to one knee. Like a snake, Yennefer’s hand snapped forward and the final soldier collapsed where he’d stood, neck snapped by an invisible force. Jaskier took the moment to breathe and steady his roiling head; _Oh, the blessed and unmoving ground._

A moment was all they had time for, and he pushed to his feet. Probed the side of his head with a tender touch, he winced; no blood, but a prize-winning goose egg he was all but guaranteed. He joined Yennefer on the outcropping of rock and took up a fighting stance, both blades raised. 

“The others--?”

She shook her head. “Dead or fled. Sabrina...Fringilla took control of her somehow. We fought.”

Jaskier knew what the outcome had been. 

“Triss still holds the gate.” He’d know if she’d fallen. “And Tissaia’s still out there.”

“They’re going to breach the walls.”

He knew that look. That weight. Settling on her shoulders as if she alone could bear it. “We can still stop them! _Together_ , Yen.”

She shook her head, glossy curls stained with dust and ash. “Leave me and help Triss.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped back as an arrow broke from the treeline; he sliced upwards, cleaving it in two a foot from Yen’s chest.

In lieu of thanks, she glared at him. “You can’t keep this up.”

“Neither can you.”

A bolt of lightning from her palm knocked back another rush of soldiers. “She needs you--”

“So do you!” 

“Damnit, Jaskier!-- _for once, do as you’re told!_ ” and the force of her command rocked him back, like the earth had shifted underfoot.

He looked at her properly then and his stomach twisted. She was bleeding Chaos. 

Jaskier swore several times about the stupidity of witches and where she could stick her commands--but if she was about to do what it looked like she was about to do, then Jaskier needed to get as far away from this spot as possible. Humans weren’t meant to be channelers of Chaos--it was meant to be free, not chained or bottled--and to take without giving back? It was suicide.

And here she was, drawing in every spare scrap of it, like it was the last water in the desert. Jaskier could see it thrumming, pulsing beneath her skin, taste the harsh singe of metal in the air as it became harder and harder to breathe around her.

The stubborn idiot was going to burn herself to ash.

_Not today._

His duplicate gave an affronted sound and dissolved. Jaskier’s own profile sharpened, dropping the last vestiges of his hastily recast notice-me-not. Further away, the net around Triss held true. He wasn’t planning on losing either of them today. 

“It’s all in the fingers,” he whispered, and began to _pull_. 

There wasn’t a speck of magic left in the dried earth around them, but he had enough left in him for this. Gold unspooled in his chest, faster and faster, as every last inch of it came free of its winding. He formed the sign for Quen with his dominant hand and felt the chain that ran up his arm and into the weary heart of him. Sorry, Coën, he thought. Desperate times call for a little improvisation.

With his left, he _inverted_ the Sign--three middle fingers curled into his palm, the other two pointed at their target. At Yennefer.

“Jaskier--fucking _go!_ ”

He raised the inverted Sign, aiming just between her shoulder blades. “Be quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.” 

_Here’s hoping_ , he thought--and on the next inhale, he slapped his right hand into the back of his left--the two halves of a mirror colliding--and _pushed_ . Not just with magic, but with sheer will. He sent every thought of safety he had into her, one after the other. And then--because it was Yennefer’s shield--he sent the feeling of _magic_. 

Of power strong enough to bend the world. 

The spell burst from his palm with more force than he’d intended, nearly staggering Yennefer. The amber shield wobbled, as if uncertain, then wrapped itself around the sorceress like net, pulling taut and vanishing from sight.

 _Hell_ , Jaskier thought. _It worked._

Her violet eyes were wide with recognition and more than a little surprise. “How--”

But Jaskier was already scrambling back off the ridge. “You’ve got a minute. Don’t waste it.”

She didn’t.

  
\----

Jaskier felt the shattering of glass in his mind, under his skin--and the shockwave rolled over the keep. The rage, the hatred. The shame at being the crooked girl, the incompetent witch. Fire, bright and feverish, blazed up over the ramparts, flooding everything behind him with light.

He kept running.

\----  
  


He found Triss curled, half-visible in the shadows beside the front gate, her beautiful red dress torn and burnt. She was so still that Jaskier felt years of his life shorn away before he was on his knees beside her, seeing her breathe with his own two eyes.

“Hey- _-hey_ , it’s me,” he murmured, shocked at the sudden brimming of tears. His relief was a tidal wave, so it was little wonder the smile he gave her had gone watery at the edges. “You’re still alive. Well done you.”

He brushed the tangle of hair back from her face and her lashes fluttered. Her eyes, normally full of warmth and light, were clouded and painfully dim. She couldn’t keep them open. But as he fretted over her, she tilted her face towards his voice.

“A promise is a promise,” she rasped. 

It was all she managed before she fell unconscious, slumping forward in Jaskier’s arms. And he gathered her close to his chest, fixating on the stuttering rise and fall of her breath that proved she was alive, and held her tight. 

“I’m going to look after you."

\----

When Jaskier stepped cautiously out of the front gate, carrying Triss in his arms, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. No battle, no birdsong. Not a sign of Nilfgaard as far as he could see...and what he _could_ see, he couldn’t make sense of.

Tissaia stood alone in a scorched field; the grass at her feet a bright, vibrant green incongruous with the blackened ash that stretched beyond her in every direction. On the rock where he had last seen her, standing tall in her fury and defiance, lay Yennefer. 

He didn’t realize he was moving until he was there. He held Triss like a lifeline, fearing the worst but needing to know, needing-- 

He let out a shaky breath and pressed his cheek to Triss’ hair. 

Yennefer was alive.

Scorched, battered, and seemingly drained of Chaos, yet she still lived.

“What happened?” he asked at last. Even standing this close, his voice sounded like a shout in the unnatural silence.

“We won.”

There was a strained awe in Tissaia’s answer; she hadn’t taken her eyes from Yen, unconscious and bloodied. The ends of her fingertips were still smoldering. It wasn’t difficult for Jaskier to put two and two together.

“Well...she’s going to be insufferable now.” 

He sighed, and hefted Triss a little higher in his arms, “Can you walk?”

Tissaia’s look was stony. “Right, sorry--How about a portal?”

Another irate look he took as a negative. He tried not to grind his teeth.

“Shall we wait here for King Foltest then?” 

“No.” Tissaia’s refusal came swiftly. “The North must believe we are strong.”

“You _are_ strong!”

“And Temeria will see nothing to contradict that.”

_Elder save him from the stubbornness of sorceresses!_

“For fucksa--alright. _Alright_. I’ll get you out.” Settling Triss carefully in the grass beside the rectoress, Jaskier surveyed the means at his disposal. “You’re as bad as Geralt,” he muttered under his breath, though none who could have understood the comparison were conscious to appreciate it.

“Wait here.”

  
It took a little doing to find a cart that had survived with all its necessary bits intact, and even more to coax first Ganymede and then _another_ horse from the stables when the former refused to be hitched to it. Walking through the remains of the camps, he toed through the hastily abandoned belongings and any blankets he found that were still salvageable went into the cart. He’d not dared to hope for anything so useful as medicine, but he found a roll of mostly clean linen that would serve for bandages and a covered basket still half-full of food from the night’s revelry. He’d just recovered his lute and pack, when a man staggered in front of the cart, begging for help--a familiar, breathing, blonde in his arms.

 _Sabrina_. 

She had survived the fall. 

Jaskier could scarcely believe it. He could feel the Chaos still kindled inside of her when he took her hand, retained where Yennefer and Triss had drained themselves, but she would not wake. And certainly there would be no one amongst the villagers or the oncoming cavalry with the skill to heal her. 

“Please help ‘er,” the man pleaded, gruff but earnest--and clearly of some mettle to have survived the day. “She saved us, she and all them other ones.”

“I will,” Jaskier promised. And then, more softly: “ _Thank you._ For finding her.”

Together ,they laid Sabrina gently in the cart. Blood had crusted down one side of her face, from temple to ear, but otherwise she lay as if sleeping. Even her cheeks remained flushed and rosy. It was the only miracle the keep had left.

He found no other mages--either they had fled in the aftermath of Yennefer’s last stand, or they were dead. The villagers that had survived were tending to their own wounded and waiting for Temeria and Kaedwen to arrive; he spread assurances as he went. Yes, Foltest was coming. Yes, it was over.

The cart trundled out of the main gate. The brown mare that had been brave enough to follow him out of the stables was a steady, slow-moving beast. It would make traveling for the injured at least bearable if not pleasant. Ganymede, the brat, trotted along behind--occasionally nosing at the straw Jaskier had laid across the cartbed. 

“You wanted to leave, so we’re leaving. And this is the way,” he announced as he approached, before Tissaia could give voice to whatever thought had soured her expression. “We’ve taken on another passenger, as well.”

Tissaia startled. With uncertain steps, she looked into the cart and saw--perhaps since the start of the fight--Sabrina alive. It wasn’t joy exactly, but there was a sudden fierceness to her expression that Jaskier thought perhaps he wasn’t meant to see. And when Tissaia reached down with shaking fingers and touched the edge of Sabrina’s sleeve, he deliberately turned away to fuss with the reins.

Whatever she’d suffered in her encounter with Fringilla, she wouldn’t say, but Tissaia looked _awful_ for all that she was still standing. And Jaskier understood a little more her desire to be gone before kings arrived. She stood by as he carefully loaded first Triss, and then Yennefer, into the cart beside Sabrina, then under her own wilting power (and Jaskier’s anxious eye), Tissaia climbed onto the front bench of the wagon. That small effort had taken the last of her energy, however, and she leaned heavily against the seat, sweating and breathing hard.

There was little room left in the wagon, but Jaskier could lean over the side well enough if he stood on the wheel. Triss was allergic to potions, something that had been no small source of annoyance over her many lifetimes--but she carried an amulet for just such a purpose. Apart from that incident in Zerrikania they did not talk about, he’d never seen her have cause to use it and he could only hope amulets didn’t sour or go off.

Reaching into the cart, he pulled the necklace free from the singed collar of her robes and snapped the medallion at the end as he’d seen her do. He felt the magic release ( _a bloody stroke of luck_ ) and with the containment broken, the healing spell seeped into her body. In less than a minute, most of her minor injuries were gone--smoothed over as if they’d never been. Even the burns looked weeks old now.

Tissaia watched it all with her sharp eyes. “You really are friends, aren’t you.”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “For a sorceress.”

Jaskier gave his most winningest smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

Tissaia didn’t deign to answer. Apparently, that was enough conversation for her and she turned back to the front again, effectively dismissing him.

Jaskier sighed and brushed the back of his fingers gently across Triss’ cheek. “Don’t worry, Merigold,” he whispered, full of worry and so much care. “I’ll win her over yet. You’ll see.”

Then he hopped back down, clicked his tongue for Ganymede--who’d begun mouthing at the only remaining patch of grass, and asked Tissaia exactly where it was she wanted to go.

  
  
  
~*~  
  


Theirs was not the only victory to be won that night, for, unbeknownst to the survivors of Sodden Hill, in an insignificant village on the edge of the Yaruga, Destiny was moving her pieces into place. And while Geralt was reuniting at last with his Child Surprise not three leagues away, Jaskier turned the horses eastward--leading his wounded charges to safety and away from the retreating Nilfgaardian line.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the excruciating delay between chapters--my only excuse is that it was 2020. And now it isn't anymore. I miss Coen, but my deep belief in Jaskier collecting only female friends remains stalwart and true.


End file.
